Soft pink sunset:
Rosy glow that says the day is over, More to come-- But darkness will come first. Perhaps there's beauty there, In the brilliance of glitter on black. Or perhaps the sky, the constellations, Are— will be, always were—shrouded by clouds. I want the stars, The moon, It all. I crave color, vibrance, A breathtaking "wow." I asked for burning red, Bloody orange, Violent magenta. Instead, I'm left with muted carnation, Muffled violet, The afterglow, a subtle truth: There's beauty in the middle, too.
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This is part 2 of a recap of my SOBO LT adventure; click here to read part 1. Day 15: Zero (count them, zero) miles Inn at Long Trail in Killington Although I have the option of sleeping in, I wake up at 5:30 completely and totally alert. I have nowhere I need to hike, no backpack to pack, no Ursack to untie, and it is a beautiful thing. I spend the next few hours reading and scrolling through Instagram until my parents are ready to head to breakfast, where I get hot chocolate and French Toast and bacon and eat some of my mom's hash browns. I do laundry and make a grocery list and then go into the Price Chopper in Rutland, which has a 2lb bulk bag of Welch's Fruit Snacks and life is so very, very good. We stop and eat lunch (a large salad and a beer) and then embark on a quest to obtain the cherry slushie I've been craving since before hopping on the trail. I spend the rest of the afternoon drinking the slushie and reading in the sunshine and savoring the feeling of clean clothes on my skin and charging all my electronics and washing my dishes and water bottle in the room's sink. The rest of the day goes quickly, packing and repacking my food, estimating calories I'll need, eating dinner at a restaurant where the hostess asks if I'd like a kid's menu, talking with my partner on the phone in the dark, sitting with my parents for an hour showing them all the pictures from the trail and already realizing that I will never, never be able to fully communicate what this trail means to me and who I am because of it. In some ways, I'm the same, and it's easier to be off the trail than I expected; it feels like I've always been in an inn on a sofa bed with dry socks and clean underwear. In others, I'm realizing that, even with these comforts, I'm determined to finish and ready to be done and not at all wanting to quit. Day 16: God, I'm lucky to be here 11 miles: Parking lot at US Route 4 to Governor Clement Morning comes fast, and I have to admit to myself that while I don't want to stop the trail, I don't particularly want to get back on it, either. I eat breakfast at the Inn again, choosing eggs and toast and tea to try to avoid making my already touchy stomach (a by-product of vegetables and real food and not hiking) feel worse. I check and re-check my bag and the room to make sure I haven't left anything behind and then my parents drive me to the trailhead and I put on bug spray and strap on my pack and hike away without looking back because I don't want them to see that I'm crying. Ten minutes into the hike, I realize I might have left my ID in the pocket of the jean shorts I'd worn the day before that are in my parent's car and stop, digging frantically through the trail-hiker's wallet (a Ziploc bag with cash and a credit card and, thankfully, my license) to determine that it's still there. The climb to the shelter below Killington at first seems like it will be unbearable — the trail slopes upward and snakes through the woods and I expect that, like other climbs thus far, I'll be hiking up the worst of the mountain. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that, rather than intensifying, it only becomes more gradual and has switchbacks, a climb that allows me to settle into the discomfort and nearly forget that my legs are moving under me. All too soon, my "last real mountain" of the trail is finished and I leave my pack at the shelter below Killington to trek up to the spur, a .2-mile rock scramble up to the most breathtaking views I've seen so far. I cannot stop swiveling my head to look around, following the green to navy to blue to sky gradient of peaks that ripple into the distance and suddenly there are tears in the corners of my eyes as it sinks in that I am here — I'm really here. I am at the peak of the second-tallest mountain in Vermont after hiking nearly 180 miles to get here and I am on my own and I am pushing myself beyond my physical and emotional limits and I'm realizing that there is so much more to me than I knew was there. No one is making me do this, I'm choosing it, and that choice makes me feel like the goddamn strongest person I've ever known myself to be. This photo is the only one of me on the trail that isn't a selfie, taken by two middle-aged couples who are shocked to discover that I'm thru-hiking — how have you gotten here? Are you scared to be alone? How does someone like you start walking at Canada and somehow make it here? I have no good answers, only the simple truth that my 5'2" self has carried nearly 40 pounds each day. Thru-hiking is not nearly as spiritual as I expected it would be — most days, rather than thinking deep thoughts, I'm focused on where to plant my feet and on how much my feet hurt and on when I'm eating my next snack. But here, at Killington Peak, I am filled with a sense of awe at myself, at my surroundings, at my God. Because I am so, so small and this world is so, so big and I am so, so lucky to be here. The rest of the day in uneventful. I go up, go down, and eventually arrive at Governor Clement shelter, which is full, but I don't mind. I pitch my tent and discover that the river is wide and deep and cold, so I filter water and then wander downstream to soak my legs and feet in the most glorious ice bath. I write in my trail journal and cook dinner and do yoga and brush my teeth and secure my Ursack and climb into my sleeping bag and read and then the night's over and it's time to start again. Day 17: (Almost) 20 miles 19.7 miles: Governor Clement to Little Rock Pond I wake up to rain, go through my morning routine, pack as much as I can inside of my tent, and put my pack inside the shelter to stay dry while I take down my very wet tent. Inside the shelter, I talk with several other hikers, all solo guys, who joke that I should shoot for Little Rock Pond, nearly 5 miles farther than my initial plan for the day. I joke back that I would have needed to start much earlier (it's nearly 9), but that plants the seed that maybe, just maybe, I could knock out a "big" day on the LT. The trail is lovely and I meet other hikers when I stop for lunch who assure me that making it to Little Rock is totally achievable, so I decide to make that my new goal for the day. In the first few minutes of my hike, I pass the "500 Miles 'til Katadhin" logbook that alerts AT NOBO hikers that their destination is (kind of) within reach and take a picture as a promise to myself that I will (might) one day pass this on a different hike in the opposite direction. Until now, the AT has been a "hell no" trail, but suddenly the thought of spending 3.5 months doing what I'm doing for 3.5 weeks sounds like the dream. There's a section of the day that almost beats that thought out of me as a gentle grade on the map ends up being a steep trek for 3 miles (punctuated by some switchbacks, but I'm cranky, so those seem less lovely than they should have been), but then I'm passing the shelter that was supposed to be my stopping point and, even though I'm tired and sore, I'm not stopping — I'm moving forward. I come across the rock garden I've been looking forward to all trail, but there are four other hikers there and it's almost 5 p.m. and I have 4 miles left to go, so I stay in the stillness for only a few moments before I keep moving. The rest of the hike becomes more and more painful, but I'm committed to going (almost) 20 miles and hoping to swim in the pond, making it easy to prod myself along. Another hiker, Florida Man, greets me as I make my way around the edge of the pond toward the shelter, showing me where the tent platform is, pointing out the caretaker who will collect my $5 fee, and promising that the pond is well-worth a dip if I have time. I set up my tent, collect water, then take my bandana-size towel and camp clothes back down the path to jump in the water. I'm in my sports bra and underwear and my hair is out of its French braids and the water is warm and I feel deliciously free and surprised by myself. Who is this girl floating in the pond at 7:50 p.m., kicking through the water exactly one week away from completing a hike through the Green Mountains? She is me, and I'm not unhappy with my body for the space it's taking up or self-conscious about the stomach that is pale and slightly green in the water — in fact, my body feels like a gift, a functional thing, a vessel that has ensured that I can and will do this hike. The evening crawls by in a lovely, slow way until the skies open up without warning, leaving the group of us who did not have room in the shelter to scatter to our tents and hope that everything is dry and under cover. Day 18: mediocre at best 9.7 miles: Little Rock Pond to Peru Peak Although sleep has been better than expected on the trail so far, last night was definitely the exception. When my alarm goes off, that is the sixth -- eighth? tenth? — time I've woken up so far, it is still pouring rain, and I am *cranky.* The thought of walking 9.7 miles today, even though it's 10 fewer than yesterday, seems like an overwhelming task. But in true trail magic form, someone at the shelter near where I pitched my tent is strumming a ukulele and singing. I join in the group, all of us eating breakfast and offering to boil water for each other, and spend the morning enjoying the company of others. It's nice to have a conversation that isn't just with me, myself, and I :) The rain has slowed down, so I take down my tent and get ready to rock and roll. As soon as I start walking, though, it starts dumping down rain again. Tucked into my rain jacket, I try to enjoy the morning but already feel defeated. A friend is getting married that day and, although I'm glad I chose to do the trail, part of me definitely wishes that I was getting ready to go celebrate her. I'm feeling melancholy and lonely while walking on a mostly flat trail that winds next to a rushing creek, and to me, that's the tension of the trail: I'm almost never on the same page mentally and physically, but I can hold gratitude and longing at the same time. By the time I make it to the shelter I'm stopping at for lunch, I have decided that I will be nothing but excited for the trail to be over. I am so nauseous that I can't think straight, my body hurts, and I just don't want to hike anymore. So? I don't. I take two lovely hours at the shelter to finish my book on my Kindle, nibble on some crackers, let my feet dry out, and to read through the many entries in the shelter log book. After a while, I've reset — my stomach is happy, I'm cold but content, and I'm ready to leave my pity party behind at the shelter. At one point, a caretaker named Penguin comes by and offers me two Reese's chip cookies, which totally and completely turns the day around. We both chat for a while, and then it's time for me to hit the road again. The rest of the afternoon is wet and long, but uneventful. I go up and over Mt. Tabor and pass a few hikers who try to convince me to take the bad weather bypass because "the rock might be a little slippery," and this is yet another moment where I'm grateful for my choice to go SOBO. Yes, the rock is most definitely slippery, but it's nothing I can't handle and it is definitely far kinder than most of what I've encountered on the trail so far. (Except for the last section, which is most definitely slippery and should be treated with the utmost respect, haha). When I make it to Griffith Lake, my intended stopping point for the evening, I debate for quite a while about whether or not to pitch my tent, and end up choosing to move on to Peru Peak shelter. While the lake seems pretty, the mosquitoes are gnarly, I'm freezing, and the idea of spending another night in a wet tent is not particularly appealing. At the shelter, I meet some incredible people, including a woman named Grand NaeNae who is in her 70s and pushing through Vermont three miles at a time. I 100% made the right call — it torrentially downpours most of the night, and although the rain is loud on the metal roof, I stay completely dry for the first time in two days. Day 19: my squelching day 11.2 miles: Peru Peak to Spruce Peak Thanks to last night's rain, the trail is a complete and total puddle. At this point, the end of the trail (6 more days of hiking) is close enough in sight that this is tolerable, and even though the weather is rotten, I feel like a new person. As always, my bad mood has passed quickly and, now that the miles are behind me, I'm excited for the ones yet to come. I spend most of the day hiking through puddles up to my ankles, which is honestly kind of fun: It reminds me of the pure joy a toddler feels when they get to splash around in mud just for the heck of it. I alternate between being focused on what's in front of me and thinking ahead to the future. Part of me wishes I had gone to yesterday's wedding, and I love listening to a voice memo from my partner telling me about how much fun it was. I'm running through the to-dos that will inevitably come up when I hop off the trail: prepping for my upcoming move to D.C., trying to remember if I have business casual clothing for office work, anticipating the Sufferfest Ryan wants to plan for his birthday, thinking about how great it will be to spend time with my family on our annual vacation. But I'm also thinking about how wild it is that the girl who climbed her first mountain in October 2020 is now out in Vermont crushing over 50 of them. Today, everything is lovely. My cheese and rolls for lunch taste better than usual, the mud doesn't bother me a bit, and by some miracle, then sun comes out for the first time in three days and I hope that I will never again take for granted what a simple joy it is to feel warm light on my face. I'm ahead of my time goal and need to stop at the shelter that's currently on the radar because I'll be resupplying in Manchester tomorrow, so I take a detour up to Spruce Peak (well worth the rock scramble, I pinky promise!), which turns out to be one of the most spiritual, grounding, "I am exactly where I need to be" moments that I experience on the entire trail. I am alone on a rock ledge looking over a valley (that, granted, is filled with cars and infrastructure) that is hazy with the moisture that the heat and sunshine are baking off the ground. I take off my wet shirt and soaked socks, lay out the rest of my gear that has not been dry in three days, spread them out on the rock, and sit in my sports bra with my face to the sun, listening to worship music and journaling. And oh my gosh, I'm so happy that it feels like I am full from the inside out. There are rolls on my stomach and I don't even care because I am so grateful to my body for getting me to this point. I am thinking about how the LT has been an exercise in being present and having a posture of thankfulness, no matter where my heart is actually leaning. It’s shown me how much of movement is mental and how resilient and motivated and determined and persistent I can truly be. It’s brought me back to the peace of burning muscles and steady but labored breathing, and I hope it brings me back to myself once I've stepped off the trail. All the words to "Lean Back" by Maverick City Music feel so true right now. I’ve found joy in both slowing down and in moving forward and in trusting my body to know what it needs while letting my mind move me farther than I thought I physically could. I know the smell of pine and fir trees will bring me back to this moment, this space, and I'm content to sit here until the sun glows golden, which means it's time to get some dinner and make camp. I set up my tent (finally, no rain overnight — hallelujah!) and joke around with the two other people at the shelter, excited to spend the next day with one of my best friends while resupplying. Day 20: this one's a rollercoaster 12.4 miles: Spruce Peak to William Douglass and then to Stratton Pond The first thing I notice when I wake up in the morning is that, sometime between my blissful meditation at Spruce Peak and waking up to sunshine, my Altras have somehow both developed holes between the sole and the upper, and, apparently, today's resupply will have to include finding new trail shoes to last the remaining four days of the trail. (As much as I don't want to do that, I'm even more loathe to spend the next few days walking on the pebbles that will inevitably end up in my shoe and/or ending up having to hike full-time in my Chacos). On my way down to the road to meet my friend for the resupply, I pass a guy ("Little Joe"), who manages to compliment my smile, try to nail down my location for the night, tell me his house is .5 miles from William Douglass, and to offer "a first aid kit if you sprain your ankle." As I try to politely move on, he tells me I can let myself into his house and take a shower if I'd like, which seriously creeps me out, so the conversation ends rather abruptly. *put a pin in this interaction, it comes into play a little later :) I meet up with Desiree and we have the best day; there's a donut place next to the laundromat, we drive around to get new shoes and granola bars and Little Debbie's snacks (plus, you know, actual other food) for the resupply, and then we eat the most delightful pizza I've had in my life. We also manage to find a public park in Manchester Center that has a pool (and, therefore, a shower!), so I unexpectedly get to wash my hair and get significantly less muddy, which is a rush of sheer joy. Before heading back to the trail, we get root beer floats and then make our way to the base of the road that leads up to Prospect Rock. Desiree walks me the 1.8 miles (all uphill) to the trail, we FaceTime a mutual friend, and split a cider as the sun is setting. Life is magical and beautiful and today is incredible. Then Desiree leaves, I head to William Douglass, and things go downhill fast. I have to dig an emergency cathole in the woods (probably thanks to the pizza, ice cream, and donuts consumed in one day, lol) and, when I get to the shelter, I am the only one there and every bone in my body is telling me to get the heck out of there. It's 7 p.m. when I arrive, and I spend 40 minutes trying to logic myself out of my panic, only managing to get more emotional and freaked out. I keep thinking about Little Joe and the way he guessed that I'd be staying here tonight, and something about this situation (with no service and my InReach taking over 20 minutes to send a message) just feels completely wrong. When the hair on my arms starts standing on end, I know it's time to listen to my gut and get the heck out of there. At 7:45, I send another message to my parents and partner to let them know that I'm pushing another 4.8 miles to Stratton Pond. Adrenaline is pumping hard and I am *cruising,* literally jogging in some points to try to make it as far as I can before it gets dark. Less than a mile into the hike, my headlamp batteries start dimming, so I pause briefly to change them out (a task made more difficult in the dark when your hands are shaking). Ten minutes later, thunder starts rumbling in the distance and rain drops begin to slowly splat all around me. At this point, I start playing worship music at top volume (mostly to try to alert any animals to my presence), praying "please don't rain please God just get me to my shelter please let this be okay oh God please let this be okay," and picking up the pace. I am sliding through calf-deep mud as thunder begins to seriously crash overhead, rumbling for more than 3 seconds at a time and booming so hard that branches (already whipping in the wind) are shaking. It is at this point that I decide that I am both a badass and an idiot for hiking the Long Trail. I have Guthooks open on my phone and keep checking to see how close I am to the shelter, watching my dot move and counting down to myself. 2.9 more miles, that's about 45 minutes at this pace. 1.7 more miles, that's about 30 minutes at this pace. 1 mile, 15 minutes. .6 miles, 10 minutes? 11 minutes? When I see signs that tell me I'm .1 miles away, I am relieved — and then all hell breaks loose. I stop at the bear box right as the skies open up, a torrential downpour coupled with thunder that is so loud I can't hear myself think as I try to remember what in my bag is smellable and take my birth control so that it — along with my other toiletries — can go in the box. I start sprinting toward the shelter and notice what is quite literally a beacon of hope: the headlamps of other hikers, who have noticed mine in the storm and want me to know that I'm close. My heart is pounding, everything below my knees is caked in mud, and I am shaking with adrenaline and fatigue after covering 4.8 miles in 1 hour and 50 minutes with a freshly resupplied pack. I desperately want to hear a familiar voice, but the service is too spotty to call anyone, so I huddle toward the middle of the porch with two hammock hikers who have taken refuge from the deluge while I wait for my inReach to let my contacts know I've made it safely. Day 21: All I want are friends and fruit snacks 10.7 miles — Stratton Pond to Story Spring I wake up at 6:30 and simply enjoy the peace of listening to other hikers, nestled into my sleeping bag as the soft sound of rain dripping off leaves sifts through the shelter. Last night's jog through the woods put me way ahead of schedule, so my morning is kind and slow. I've hit the AT bubble, so at least 10 of us chat over breakfast, sharing tips about the terrain we're about to encounter and talking about how much we love PopTarts and what foods we never want to eat again. I eventually wander back down to Stratton Pond to check out the view I missed the night before, sit and soak in the drizzly day, and then begin the gradual trek to the top of Stratton Mountain. At the top, I am so excited to see a fire tower that promises to have the best views on the trail ... until I realize that the ever-present grey clouds have completely rolled in and socked in any possible views. Coupled with the fact that the AT hiker who joins me at the top of the fire tower is eating straight out of a jar of cookie butter for lunch — something that sounds like the most delightful treat and that I am wildly jealous of — I spend most of my time feeling mildly mopey and sorry for myself as I eat dried pineapple, hamburger rolls, and slices of cheese for lunch. Despite my whining, the picture I take as a "see how bad this is?" moment turns out to be one of my favorites for the trail. The rest of the day, quite honestly, is a slog. It is hot and humid, I have a pounding headache, my legs are heavy, and the mud is totally over my ankles. I spend most of the day praying with every bone in my body that there will be other people at the shelter tonight, trying to mentally prepare myself to hike farther if needed to have some company. About two miles from my destination shelter, I come across a hiker going through some sort of withdrawal who is waiting for a ride and has lost his map. He is jittery and keeps coming close to me, trying to use my phone or see my map or get some sort of assistance. I try my best to help him out and eventually determine that he is right where he needs to be to meet his friend, but two days in a row of odd encounters with large men makes me feel extremely ready to no longer be alone in the woods. When I make it to Story Spring, I catch a glimpse of someone's bright orange tent, hear voices coming from the shelter, and get mildly teary when I realize that I'll have company for that evening. (I really, truly cannot remember a time when I have ever in my life been more grateful to see strangers). The couple staying in the shelter talk with me about their children, their experiences section-hiking the Long Trail, and about other favorite adventures they've done, and my body is just flooded with peace throughout that entire evening. Day 22: Easy easy easy — the end is in sight 9.5 miles — Story Spring to Goddard & Glastenbury Fire Tower When I wake up in the morning, it is with total relief that today will be an easy day. I got an extremely solid amount of sleep, it's not raining for the first time in 6 (!!) days when I wake up, and I get to spend breakfast chatting with another SOBO hiker who is rocking some longer days and plans to finish the next morning. The only mild hiccup of the day is when I get a voice memo from my partner responding to the one I left the night before, where I had mentioned being lonely/anxious/kind of ready to be done with the trail. I give myself 10 minutes to cry at the top of the hill (apologies to the hikers who passed me during that point, we've all been there ;)) as I realize how much the night hike/weird interactions on the trail have rocked my confidence. I'm sad that I've allowed something out of my control to so significantly impact my experience on the trail, but I try to give myself grace as I realize that I have never in my life felt the type of gut-deep fear telling me to remove myself from a situation as I did that night at William Douglass. Once my 10 minutes are up, I eat some fruit snacks, dust myself off, and decide to reset my attitude on the trail. And suddenly, that reset kicks in on a soul-deep level. I am achingly grateful for the rocks and streams I cross, for the mud that still soaks through my shoes, and for the sunshine that occasionally makes it onto my skin. Even when I trip over a rock and end up turtling onto my backpack just before summiting Glastenbury Mountain, I feel like life is good and like the laughter and joy that have been so out of reach in my funk are easy to find now. The rest of the day is just supremely incredible. I sit at the top of the fire tower for an hour, where suddenly, there are views. Vermont has views. I am two days from the end of the trail and I can suddenly see more than tree branches and clouds and oh my gosh, this is what pure satisfaction feels like. While I'm not totally thankful that it's rained so often, there's something about feeling sunshine instead of damp that is unbelievably exhilarating. I eventually make my way down to Goddard shelter, where there's a clearing that I use to spread out my tent to try to finally dry it out after sitting in my pack for days. I read and I journal and I stretch, but I mostly just sit on a rock in the sun and listen to the white-throated sparrows and let the feeling of warm sun and a soft breeze get etched into my bones. I make conversation with other hikers who pass through and decide around 6 p.m. that I would like to go tent-camp at the fire tower. There's many of us up there, and I really truly feel like a thru hiker as we all swap trail stories and eat pasta and laugh together. One sweet couple, with the trail name of Gone With the Wind, invite me to sit with them at their campfire; they're retired, going NOBO on the AT, and they are truly some of the coolest people I've ever met in my life. The sunset is subtle and quiet, just like the day has been, and I chat with several AT hikers as dregs of color fade into a soft purple. Tonight, I realize how much control I have in the face of nature, which is wild and wonderful at the same time. No, I can't make the sun shine or the rain stop, but I can choose to be grateful and loving. It's not a new lesson, but it's a needed reminder, and I snuggle into my sleeping bag with my puffy zipped to my chin as I listen to the laughter coming from Gone With the Wind. Day 23: You know how life can just be really, really good? And how you don't deserve it but it's lovely anyway? And how hard things don't have to break you? 14.4 miles — Glastenbury Fire Tower to Congdon Shelter My alarm goes off at 4:50 and I am cold, tired, and super excited to get out of bed. In the quiet pre-dawn, I retrieve my bear bag, make my instant decaf coffee in a ritual that has become one of the simplest pleasures in life, and slip a PopTart into my pocket to eat while watching the sunrise. I forget my glasses, but this is still the most glorious sunrise and view of the entire freaking trail. This morning makes absolutely everything — the mud, the blisters, the arch pain, the fear, the loneliness, the soul-crushing climbs, the knee-crunching descents — worth it and more. I chat with other hikers, one of whom I pair up with another to give a trail name to (Golden Year: It's her 23rd birthday on July 23rd), and take a timelapse of the sunrise while chatting about life and dreams and what the most superior place to sleep is (we're divided between tents and fire towers). The sun rises three times, coming first over the horizon, then poking through the clouds, and then rising above the clouds again. The pond in the distance is Stratton Pond, and there's something redemptive and holy about watching the sun light up the mist that hangs over what was, literally and figuratively, the darkest part of the trail for me. After two hours of shivering in the fire tower, once the sun is fully awake and the morning is losing its golden light, I climb back down to my tent and huddle back into my sleeping bag as I make oatmeal and reheat my essentially iced coffee that went stone cold in the tower. Gone With the Wind admire my PocketRocket and how quickly it boils water, joke about which one snored more the night before, and tease me about being far too perky for 8 a.m. We all tear down our tents together, wish each other the best on our respective hikes, and move on with our day. Time is flying too quickly for my taste, and I spend the day trekking up and down hills that probably would have infuriated me on day two of the trail, but 20 days later feel like a part of my regular routine. Don't get me wrong: They're hard, and there is one ascent in particular that is a half-mile of stone stairs that provokes a few good-natured "Holy f***, this is a workout," but most of the day looks exactly what I imagined thru hiking would be before I hopped on the trail on July 1. And suddenly I'm up and over my last hard climb, crossing through a clearing that opens up into Harmon Hill, and there's another sign that marks the distance to Canada — but this time, I'm on the right side of it. This day feels like a love letter to Liz, a letter I write by apologizing to my body for thinking it was bad and by reflecting on everything I've lost — some weight, some insecurity, some shame, some urgency — here in the woods. The trail hasn't remade me and it hasn't drastically altered my life trajectory, but it has reminded me of how worthy I am of coming home to myself. I do not have to be perfect. I do not have to be positive all the time. I do not have to look in a mirror or be a good girlfriend or second-guess whether I'm living up to people's expectations of me as a leader. Instead, I can cinch up my waist belt as tight as it goes every single morning, French braid my hair, shove it into my beloved lemon hat, and take sips of water that is either cold from my water bladder or warm from sitting in the plastic tube that stretches across my shoulder. I do not have to like myself. I have to trust myself, I have to live with myself, and I get to hike with myself — and that's a totally different thing. Before I know it, before I'm ready, I've gotten water and made it to my final shelter at Congdon Camp. And everything feels like it's coming full circle: I'm writing advice in the trail journal to remind hikers to hike their own hike, to not add "just" to their Long Trail hike when talking to AT hikers, and to remember that all hills end eventually. I'm laughing with a hiker named Tagalong who started the AT with his girlfriend and continued once she decided she was done (with both him and the trail). I help a young woman who is starting her NOBO thru hike hang her bear bag, I eat my last dinner of pasta sides, and I (in an act of extreme generosity for tomorrow Liz) save my final Honey Bun to eat as a snack tomorrow. Day 24: Meanwhile, the world goes on. 13.6 miles — Congdon Camp to the southern terminus to Pine Cobble Road Oh, man. My watch alarm goes off this morning and I, quite simply, do not want today to be over — even when it's barely begun. I get out of bed as soon as I can to prolong the morning and, for the first time ever, manage to finish my tea while it is still hot because I take the time to make my oatmeal, eat my oatmeal, and then reboil water for peppermint tea. Today is a day of luxury: I can wear my last pair of dry socks. I can wear my short-sleeve shirt I haven't put on since I did laundry in Manchester, so it's still clean. I can wear my shorts that I usually save to sleep in. Today, I decide, is good. I come across a hiker who had just begun that day, a hiker who is already pissed about the mud and the rocks and the humidity. And while I try to be nice, internally, I'm thinking that this poor guy is about to have a rough hike in front of him. (Do I bother to say that? No. He'll figure it out soon enough). For the third day in a row, there is sunshine and blue skies, and holy moly I'm so thankful it feels like I'm overflowing with smiles and joy and warmth. (I come across four snakes on the wooden walkway across this pond, which is the only negative part of the day — I internally freak out, externally prod them off the bridge with my pole, and then jog to the other side because oh man I do not like snakes). I climb my last named point on the trail (Consultation Peak) and stop to strip off my shirt, hiking only in a sports bra for the rest of the day. I pass AT hiker after AT hiker (which I know because I somehow always manage to be going downhill, so my rhythm pauses again and again as I yield to them, as is proper trail etiquette. P.S. ALWAYS YIELD if you're on the downhill. PLEASE). I'm meeting my partner at the terminus around 3 p.m., so I hike slowly and savor the sun and eat my last honeybun at a power line crossing as I sit and think about how much I've changed and how much I'm the same and how I wish I had planned ahead and decided to hike the AT from VT to PA to get home instead of catching a ride home. I pass a sign reminding me I have 3.1 miles before I'm done, which is wild. I used to run this in high school, I think. One more Tuesday XC meet until you're officially an LT thru hiker. You're amazing. I eat lunch at Seth Warner shelter and then I'm back on the trail, ready and eager to reach the end and happy to stay totally present in the moment. I pass a woman who tells me "I hate to tell you, but it's mostly uphill your way," and I joke back, "I hate to tell you, but the same thing applies." About half a mile from the terminus, I'm hiking up (of course I'm going up — how else did I expect the Long Trail to go?) the last hill when I run into two guys who are day-hiking the stretch of the trail. "Where are you coming from?" They ask. Canada, I say. "What the fuck?!" This is the moment it sinks in: I really, truly am doing the thing. They ask how long I've been out here (24 days!), if I've been doing it solo (pretty much!), and seem amazed that this 5'2" 22-year-old is doing the damn thing (yeah, same, honestly). Before I know it, I'm at the terminus. To be honest, it's ridiculously anti-climactic. There are no other hikers or people in sight, and it feels odd-but-right to finish alone. I take a bunch of self-timer pictures in front of the sign, write in the trail log, and then just sit on a rock for 10 minutes as I read the words "Welcome to the Vermont Long Trail: A Footpath in the Wilderness," over and over and over again. (I never make it past those words). And then? Then, I'm out. I have 3.6 more miles to get to the car, and I am soaking every step in. I text my parents and Ryan, then set off down the trail. I am absolutely floating. In a funny little twist, the only time I ever say "Where am I?" is after I've finished the trail, when I miss the sign directing me toward the trailhead and end up on Pine Cobble rock itself, where I accidentally disturb a peacefully meditating woman who graciously redirects me to my destination. And then I meet Ryan on the uphill, a mile from the end, and we finish together. I don't feel overwhelmed with accomplishment or even like I'm done, but I feel ... happy. Just purely, completely, incandescently happy. We drive the five hours back to Ithaca, stopping for pizza and listening to live music, and then I shower and borrow clothes from Ryan to sleep in since everything I own is sweaty and muddy, and then that's it. I'm done. I'm a thru hiker. Calm woods, steady footsteps, labored breathing. Nature has a heartbeat that pulses through the rhythmic patter of my hiking poles and the three-toned call of the white-throated sparrows in Vermont's Green Mountains. And while the hike might be over, I hope that heartbeat meets mine over and over and over again.
An open letter to the one who no longer wants to live: Right now, you’re sitting on your phone, the weight of the world on your shoulders and a vise squeezing your chest. You are tired — of fighting, of trying, of attempting to convince your brain that things will get better when tomorrow has yet to bring the hope that others tell you will arrive with the sunrise. You’re exhausted from the war in your mind, from trying to drown out the voice inside of you that somehow whispers “you’re not worth it” louder than the shouts that you are loved. The medication and therapy and meditation and treatment haven’t worked, and you’ve given up hope that they ever will. You hear those around you saying that things will improve, that someday you’ll wake up and be grateful that you’re alive, but it’s been days or weeks or months or years of waiting and you are just done with empty promises and false hopes. And maybe death isn’t a paradise, but it seems like a better alternative than the hell you wake up to when your alarm goes off. This is a battle I can’t fight for you. This is a life I can’t make you choose. It’s unfair of me to expect you to want to keep fighting, because maybe the only reason you’re still here at all is because you’re desperately trying to stay alive for everyone but yourself. Even though they say they love you, even though they say their lives are better with you in them, you can’t help but think that they’re lying — that it would be better for everyone, especially you, if your heart just stopped beating and your lungs stopped expanding and you just weren’t here. You’re allowed to feel how you feel. No matter how hard I try, I can’t argue against what you believe to be true — or what your mind has convinced you *is* truth — and I can’t yell louder than that voice inside of you is shouting right now. Despite debate and prose and a list of one thousand reasons why you are one in a million, vocabulary lists have nothing on the litany of lies and vicious emptiness sitting squarely on your shoulders. But, I need you to understand something at this moment where the darkness is absolute and there’s no light shining through: you are loved more than you will ever possibly be able to imagine. I can’t stop you from making this choice, but I hope I can show you what the truth of the situation will be. The day your sister gets that phone call will be the worst moment of her life. Her phone will ring on a Sunday afternoon, and she will pick up to the sound of her dad’s voice catching and breaking as he explains that life was more than you could bear. And you won’t be there to see it, but her knees will buckle and she will curl up on her dorm floor, sobbing because this reality hurts worse than she ever expected it to. Your mother will go through suicide prevention trainings at work and blame herself the whole time, wondering how she missed the signs that she is studying. Your father will never forget walking in the door of your apartment, finding you in your bed without a note or a reason or a warning. And life will go on, but oh my God, the world will change in an instant. Your sister will sob so hard that she can’t see the words she’s reading because, somehow, she’s taking a test in 24 hours but you don’t have a heartbeat, and suddenly a diploma seems meaningless in the face of death. Your brother won’t sleep through the night for three weeks because nighttime reminds him that your world once looked this dark and no light switch could make you see that things can get brighter. Your best friend won’t be able to inhale fully and she’ll feel guilty for laughing or smiling or for enjoying a moment because the last time she did, that she forgot to worry about you for the first time in a decade and suddenly you weren’t there for her to check in on. The world needs you here, the world wants you here, and the world is a better place because of the fight you are going through to exist. And the people who love you will be left with a gaping space where your name should be, with empty chairs or moments where your body and your voice should break the silence and fill in the memories. They will never stop blaming themselves, never stop wishing that they had sent one more text or remembered to call or that they hadn’t thought school or work or friends or fun was more important than you were. Your mom will walk out of the room when a TV show reminds her that your body was once the one lying on a bed without breath, that the ambulance may have gotten there on time in SVU, but that the call was placed 20 minutes too late for you. If you’re one of the lucky ones, if you wake up because your manager called at 6:32 because you weren’t at work and suddenly you’re in a hospital surrounded by beeping monitors and blips on a screen that remind you that your heart didn’t stop, I hope you know that the worst moment of your life will be the best one of theirs. I hope you know that your sister will feel guilty that you’re hurting, but that there will be more relief than she ever knew she could feel because you are still there to love. Your parents will always remember finding you, but will never stop being grateful that you didn’t call off work because didn’t think you’d be missed enough. Reality will be painful and you’ll spend your time at home agonizing over what could have gone differently — you’ll wish you’d take a few more pills or cut a little deeper or drank a little faster, but you’re still here and I hope you know there’s a reason that goes far beyond any mistakes on your part. I hope you know that, as painful as it is, a heartbeat is worth celebrating. If I could make life better, if I could take your place, if I could crack the window to let the light in, I’d do it in an instant. I’d paint on canvas to paint over the lies that tell you that the world is better off without you or that you don’t deserve to be here. And on world mental health awareness day, in the midst of the moments that are the hardest to live through, I hope I can help remind you of this truth: the world needs you here, the world wants you here, and the world is a better place because of the fight you are going through to exist. 1 (800) 273-8255. The trail was a beautiful thing.
It was hard — harder than expected, to the point where a girl who doesn’t swear spent a lot of time saying the f-word. Why? Because there was a lot of fucking mud. Because there was a lot of fucking rain. Because there was a lot of fucking climbing. But mostly, because I was choosing to do something that should have been miserable and instead found that there was something beautiful in that pain. I don’t mean that in a silver-lining way — I didn't give thanks for the hard climbs or for the way my arches felt like rubber bands that were too stretched too tight and every so often had a little knife stabbing into them -- In fact, that’s when the swearing kicked in. But for the first time in years, I was miserable and in pain, and I was also totally and completely in control of that. I could stop I could stop I could stop I could stop It’s the wettest July on record My blister got a blister (literally) My hiking partner left early My arches are crying with every step I could stop I could stop I could stop I should stop I should stop I should stop I should stop But I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back to mirrors that remind me that I don’t like my reflection; I can see myself more clearly out here anyway. I don’t want to sit under artificial lights; I’m grateful for the sun that bakes into my skin. I don’t want to forget how thankful I am for cold streams and dry socks and a warm puffy. Out on the trail, I’m a better person, a stronger one, a calmer one, a person who is kinder — not to others, but to myself The Long Trail has been an exercise in coming home Home to my breath, which is harsh and labored and rhythmic; Home to my resiliency, which reminds me that I am capable of choosing hard things rather than soldiering through those that are thrust upon me; Home to my body, which has always felt like an enemy, but also an old friend — one who is waiting for me to realize that there’s nothing but worthiness here. In the middle of the trail, I realize I don’t even know who I am anymore, and that’s the most freeing thing I’ve experienced. Who is this girl swimming in a pond in her underwear after hiking 19.7 miles just because she could? Who is this person sitting on top of the second-tallest mountain in Vermont after hiking 180 miles to get there? Who am I to be here? Who am I to think I can do this? Who am I to think I can’t? When you’re at your physical limit, when your legs are screaming and your back is tired and you cannot possibly take one more step but you somehow have to climb 1.7 more miles straight uphill, When you spend 2 hours and 15 minutes fighting with yourself, whispering “fuck” to yourself, telling yourself “relentless forward progress” “I can’t do this” “I can do this but I don’t want to” When you finally reach a shelter and stop climbing and sit and eat pasta while sitting on a railing watching the dregs of a sunset slip into purple in the alpine zone, When you hike through the terror of a thunderstorm in the dark, Praying with every step that the rain will wait Please God, let it wait -- Just 4 more miles Just 2 more miles Just .29 more miles The bear box, The shelter, The headlamps pointed into the darkness because other hikers saw you and realized it was 9:30pm and the wind was whipping and the rain was pouring and they knew that light would be a beacon, a reminder to say: You are safe, You are here, You made it. And you’re dripping sweat and covered in mud and adrenaline is pumping through your body And that light from the headlamp feels like a hug -- In those moments, There is no room for hatred for a stomach, for insecurity about legs, for thoughts of acne and greasy hair, There is no room for tearing yourself down and besides, The mountains do that work for you. The rocks break you and the mud sucks you in and the trail relentlessly pushes you until you forget how to hate yourself and realize that the enemy is not you or your body, The enemy is not nature or the trail or another fucking climb, The enemy is not even your mind. In fact, there is no enemy at all, you just felt like you needed to release your loathing, your anger, your deepest emotions, and you had nowhere to send them, So instead you tucked them into your soul and into your belly and into every piece of you that you wish you could hide. But now you’ve slipped into the rhythm of the hike, where nature is a spiritual practice and the trail is a liturgy of sorts, A ritual that stays routine but is never the same. Every morning, the PopTarts are the best you’ve tasted and the uphills wreck you and the downhills wreck you too and you hike and you eat and you cry and you smile and you sometimes think deep thoughts but you mostly think about where your next foot placement is going to be and then suddenly the miles you were dreading or eagerly awaiting or simply moving through are behind you and you’re held in your sleeping bag and find that the emotions you wanted to push away are now held too, Because now the trail holds them all, a worn path that has heard your wrath and your exhaustion and your joy and has made space for all and in turn has made space in you. It's taken the highs and lows and the fantastic and the monotonous, Mixing those moments with the fog that rolls in and the views that aren’t there and the views that ARE there and the stars that wink above you when it’s 2am and you had to pee and now you don’t want to go back to bed because holy hell even pitch black is beautiful out here, You are held and you are whole and you are hiking. And tomorrow, You’ll lose yourself and find yourself and will be reminded once again that The trail is a beautiful thing. For the purposes of keeping things at least a little bit shorter, I'll be breaking up my full recap by the North and South sections. Click here to read about why I started this hike in the first place, and here to read about how I prepared to hop on the trail. June 30th: this is getting real After a long day of packing up my apartment, moving out, driving home, sorting out food, packing and repacking my backpack, and trying to remember any last-minute items I needed to pick up (luckily, there were none), my alarm goes off at 7 am & I roll out of bed to get ready to head to Vermont. My parents drive my friend (who will do the first 5 days) and me the 10 hours to Jay, Vermont, where we grab dinner and spend the night at the Jay Village Inn. I'm nervous, excited, and ready to finally start this adventure. July 1st: and so it begins 10 miles: 1.3 into the terminus, 8.7 to Laura Woodward After a leisurely breakfast at the country store across the road from the inn and a quick stop back to our rooms to use the bathroom, we bump down the rough trail to get to the approach of the Long Trail. I spray my first of many coats of bug spray, tuck my pants into my socks, and put on my backpack, already surprised at how heavy it feels. The 1.3 mile hike into the terminus of the LT gains nearly 1,000 feet in that distance, and I'm sweating and tired before I even make it to the border. My parents (rockstars that they are) hike in with the two of us, take our picture at the border, and remind us that there's no shame in stopping early if we need to. We're determined to try our best and, already humbled by the trail, begin our journey. On our way to Laura Woodward, we peak several small mountains (some are marked, some are not) and quickly realize that the Long Trail will be a lot of pain with little visual reward — wooded summits are commonplace, offering little-to-no views of the elevation we're climbing. We run into a hiker about to finish, who tells us we'll have a hard section "between miles 35 and 135" and to "enjoy every minute of the hike." After some demoralizing climbs, we take a break, eat a snack, and press forward. We stop at Shooting Star shelter for lunch, where I quickly realize that I will not be able to choke down tortillas and peanut butter every day for lunch. After bumping over Doll Peak (twice, as there are two deceivingly large humps to go over), we roll into Laura Woodward shelter, filter water from a puddle-type creek, cook dinner, and figure out how to do a PCT bear hang. There's a beautiful sunset filtering through the trees, calming my nerves and reminding me that all of this — the climbing, the food, the new experiences — is such a gift. We stretch, attempt to dry our shoes, and roll into our sleeping bags, excited but nervous for what tomorrow will bring. Day 2: the day shit gets real 8.3 miles: Laura Woodward to Hazen's Notch Although I've never slept well outdoors, the combination of several hectic weeks and three nights of little sleep means I wake up more rested than expected, an experience my trail partner Mountain Goat did not share. We eat breakfast, pack up camp, and hop on the trail, and my hips — abused by the hip belt on my pack — immediately protest. My legs, however, aren't sore, and I remind myself to be thankful for that as we move forward. We pass two hikers on our way up to Jay Peak who remind us to focus on "relentless forward progress," a mantra that will stay with me throughout the rest of the hike. After some confusion as we come out of the woods and try to figure out where the trail goes (straight up the ski hill), we summit Jay Peak, which is totally socked in by fog. While views would have been nice, the fog is comforting and eerily beautiful, something I appreciate more than I expect. The rest of the day is relentless, involving several mountains, many slippery rocks, and constant PUDs (pointless ups and downs) that make my knees ache. Already, I've realized that I need arch support for my shoes that I won't be able to get for at least three days, and the last several miles into Hazen's Notch are a painful hobble. It takes us 7.5 hours after leaving camp to make it the 8.3 miles to Hazen's Notch, and I'm trying very hard to get out of my head and take the trail one day — and one step — at a time. Just as I've managed to calm myself down, I see a sign reminding me I have 254.6 miles to go before I reach the southern terminus, a distance that seems overwhelmingly far away. After soaking my feet in the freezing creek, rolling out my arches on my golf ball, and doing some yoga, my spirits are lifted. Mountain Goat and I joke with others who are about to finish their thru-hike and then go to bed early, hoping the next day's mileage will pass quickly. Day 3: Trenchfoot 14.6 miles: Hazen's Notch to Spruce Ledge Camp The morning starts out chilly and rainy, but I choke down my stale granola, pack my bag, and get ready to rock and roll on Day 3. The trail is slippery and almost constant rock, and immediately after joking to Mountain Goat that my goal is to not fall during the day, I slip and skid a few feet down the hill. A few minutes later, I fall again, this time twisting my knee in an awkward position. Luckily, nothing is seriously injured, but I'm intimidated at the thought of doing this for another 12 (and 254.6) miles. When we stop for lunch, we realize that our mileage is off: we have 8.6 miles left to cover instead of 6. Although slightly demoralized, we leave the shelter and spend a few minutes trying to find the trail — once we do, I immediately fall again, but at this point, I'm used to it :) We're less than 3 miles from camp when the soles of my feet, which are already sore, start itching, then burning. I take off my socks and discover that my feet are white and wrinkly, but there's nothing I can do but hike in my Chacos and hope for the best. Immediately after this, we climb our first ladder and cross into Devil's Gulch and are amazed by how mystical it seems — despite having more miles to go, we feel like we are on an adult playground and soak in what is the clear highlight of the trail so far. While morale is high, my body is tired and my feet are screaming in pain, making the last trek to camp seem to last forever. Mountain Goat stays in front of me, helping me stay motivated, and we eventually climb the 830 vertical feet to stay at Spruce Ledge for the evening. Although we should have gotten water before the shelter (there's nothing reliable there), we luckily have enough for dinner, breakfast, and to get to the next water source. We also see a well-placed ad for Nye's Bed and Breakfast near Johnson and decide to try to stay there if possible when we resupply. Day 4: "Your first real mountain is yet to come" 15.1 miles: Spruce Ledge to Roundtop We wake up and discover that our socks, despite being hung from the clotheslines inside the shelter, are still totally soaked from the days prior. I decide to save my last dry pair to hike into town the next day, so I put on mud-crusted socks/shoes and remind myself that I'll step in a puddle soon anyway. Another hiker, Toejam, has informed us that we have an "easy 15 miles" ahead of us, but when we spend the first part of the day climbing a steep uphill, we're not sure we're in agreement about what "easy" means. Despite our misgivings, the day is better than others have been so far, featuring flat sections of trail and some smooth terrain. I try to appreciate this, but my arches begin aching less than a mile into the day, and we learn that the bed and breakfast has no room for hikers, which is more than a little demoralizing. When we stop for lunch, I try to fix the hot spots building on my feet, which requires more Moleskine than I wanted to use. When we hop back on the trail, Mountain Goat's knee begins seizing up and we both are hobbling as we climb up and over Laraway. On the other side, however, we are treated to our first views of the trail and to some trail magic in the form of lettuce & carrots from a day hiker, which boosts our spirits and makes everything in the last 4 days completely and totally worth it. I do a quick attitude reset and remind myself to be grateful that I have the opportunity to be here. I'm absurdly thankful for Mountain Goat and her support on the first few days of the trail — she's crushing the hills and pulling me with her. Buoyed by the thought of a resupply that includes arch supports, a knee brace, and a lunch food that isn't tortillas, Mountain Goat and I make it to camp by 5:30, cook dinner, do a bear hang, and enjoy the sunset. Somewhere in there, we're reminded at the (very full) shelter that we haven't even climbed the first "real" mountain of the trail, a fact that does nothing to make us excited for the coming days. However, we discover that the friend of a hiker will be driving into Johnson tomorrow and is willing to take us there, which means laundry & food & less walking than expected, which does wonders for the morale. We agree to meet at the trailhead by 9 the next morning and crawl into our sleeping bags. Day 5: a turning point 7.6 miles: Roundtop to Bear Hollow w/a resupply in Johnson In the morning, we make breakfast and chat with other hikers, half of whom are days away from finishing while others have many miles to go. I discover that my pinky toe, which I initially thought was just sore, is actually completely covered on the bottom by a blister, which I drain, clean, and cover. Although my feet are "not well" according to Mountain Goat, I'm determined to be a good sport. The mileage in the morning passes quickly — we peak Roundtop at 7:45 and have long stretches of smooth dirt, lifting our spirits considerably. We're both dreaming of fresh food and sandwiches in town. Our trail friend drives us to Sterling Market, we say goodbye, and then we spend the next hour wandering grocery aisles, slightly overwhelmed by all our options. I get a yogurt and a sub and a cherry coke and ranch bugles for lunch, resupply for the trail, and sit with Mountain Goat outside to divvy up the food into our packs. Unfortunately, there's nowhere in town to get a knee brace or arch supports and the hardware store is closed for the observance of the 4th of July, so I mentally prepare myself for another 6 days of hobbling and cross my fingers that the strain I'm putting on my plantar fascia doesn't cause any long-term issues. We spend the next few hours at the laundromat, where I rinse my hair in the sink for the first time in 5 days, charge my phone, download several new books on my Kindle, and enjoy eating lunch in a chair in my rain gear and shorts. With fresh clothes and full bellies, we feel like new women and are ready to get back on the trail. The first mile toward our next shelter is on a smooth, gradual dirt path, and I'm lulled into a false sense of ease. The next 3.5, however, are on a logging road that goes up for what seems like forever. We play music and settle into a rhythm of up up up that will become familiar on the rest of the trail, and we're sweaty but satisfied when we get to camp. Mountain Goat needs to get off the trail earlier than planned, so we discuss the logistics of what that looks like, divvy up food, and prepare to part ways in the morning. Despite that, we're grateful for the time we spent together and look forward to reconnecting when I'm off the trail at the end of July. I talk on the phone with my partner for a while, feeling excited but slightly nervous at the thought of being solo. Nevertheless, I'm looking forward to what's coming next! Day 6: Why is there so much f#%@ing climbing??? 13.5 miles: Buchanan to Taft This morning is our latest start so far, but it feels nice to ease into the trail. After saying goodbye to Mountain Goat, I spend the first 3 hours of the day climbing up up up up up, summiting Whiteface, which feels completely and utterly relentless. My efforts are rewarded with more fog and a storm rolling in, and I scramble to try to get off the summit and to a lower elevation. The downhill is steep and rocky, often requiring me to ease myself down with my hands, and I'm suddenly glad I spent so much time rock climbing before coming on the trail. Lunch is cheese on a hamburger roll, another source of joy: no more tortillas! Soon after lunch, I start climbing again. I have a moment of fear when I place a foot wrong at the top of a 10-foot wet rock face, cheese-gratering back down the surface I just edged my way up. Somehow, I'm completely uninjured, but it's a good reality check to tread carefully. I continue my climb up toward Madonna Peak, constantly repeating "little steps, big progress," and I'm met with views and wildflowers and a sense of peace that can only come from physical exhaustion and pride and the knowledge that there's still a long way to go. This is, mentally and physically, the hardest day of the trail for me (and keeps that title for the rest of my time on the LT). I make it to Sterling Pond, refill on water, and have to dig deep to keep moving — I want to stop early, but know I have several hard days of climbing in front of me and need to stay on track for my resupply at Lincoln Gap. A section hiker assures me that the next 4ish miles to Taft Lodge are "rugged but switchbacky," so I tell myself that I'll be fine and decide to press on toward Taft without looking at the elevation profile on the map. When I reach Smuggler's Notch, I'm mentally and physically done, but still have 2 miles left to go to reach the shelter. The trail is rocky and rooty and completely free of switchbacks, and as I climb up Mansfield, I gain almost 2100 feet in 1.7 miles (the full climb has 2800 feet in 2.3 miles). This climb is a constant slog with a lot of swearing under my breath — I cannot remember the last time I was this tired and in this much pain. I stop often, leaning my forehead onto my trekking poles and feeling completely spent. Every time I say "I can't do this," I follow it up with a half-hearted "I can do this, I just don't want to" — and then, for someone who doesn't swear, I spend a lot of time saying the f-word. I limp into camp around 7:20 and have never been more glad to see a shelter. I write in my camp journal and bundle into my puffy and sit on the deck of Taft Lodge, feeling drained and proud and excited to summit Mansfield in the morning. Day 7: views on views on views 14.5 miles: Taft to Buchanan I wake up at 7 the next morning and sit on the deck while talking with others, eating oatmeal and drinking instant coffee and feeling buoyed by the sunshine that is easing through the clouds. I pack up my things and set off toward the summit, a climb that feels far easier than the trek to the shelter the night before, even though it is more of a rock scramble than before. Everything — the alpine flowers, the blue skies, the endless mountains — feels special, and I can't stop feeling like I want the trail to last forever, an abrupt turnaround from yesterday's frustration. I'm learning that feelings pass quickly, so I hold onto the good and let go of the bad as much as I can. Two day hikers point out the distinct tip of Camel's Hump in the distance, and it starts to sink in that I'll be there in only 2 (!!) days. I take my time crossing first the Chin, then the Forehead, wanting to stretch out the views while staying cognizant of the knowledge that I have miles to go before I reach the shelter that evening. As I descend the mountain, I'm grateful that I'm going SOBO — the climb up was hard, but I would have been far more scared to go down the rock than I was to go up. As it is, I pick my way down roots and ladders and make it a goal to keep a good attitude, no matter what happens. That's tested almost immediately at lunch, where I discover that several hikers are hopping off the trail to try to avoid a serious rainstorm that promises to hit the next day and dump several inches of rain on top of a trail that is already muddy and slippery. As I climb Puffer mountain, which feels bigger than the elevation profile indicated, I'm grumpy and lonely and hoping for company at that evening's shelter. The day seems to last forever in a positive way, and, despite my nerves about the next day's storm, I stop to appreciate the way mushrooms sprout off the trees and an overlook and 2 jugs of water that are left as trail magic — I don't need them, but the kindness lifts me up just the same. The night ends by the fire at a shelter with 2 other hikers (one NOBO, one SOBO), and I'm determined to get up early the next morning to cram in miles before the rain begins. I wake up once in the middle of the night and step out of the shelter to look up at the sky, which is covered by the most beautiful, intense stars I've ever seen in my life. Here in the wilderness, miles from the closest road, shivering in the darkness, I feel like I'm coming home. Day 8: I get lucky 12 miles: Buchanan to Bamforth The first thing I hear when my alarm goes off is Gravy Train speaking from the top bunk, letting us know that we'll be getting 3 inches of rain starting at 10 am. I hustle through breakfast and book it back to the trail, practically jogging to make it as far as possible before the storm begins. As I hurtle down a lovely section of endless dirt switchbacks, I'm met by a day hiker and his three dogs: he passed another guy who was staying at the shelter, who told him to tell me that rain won't hit until 4. Immediately I'm less cranky and less stressed and totally stoked for the day, and I set off in a much better mood. I pass through a farm that the LT intersects and have to take off my pack to slither under a portion of an electric fence that crosses the trail and get charged by a fluffy white guard dog who (luckily) swerves at the fence line. Although I'm happy that rain won't come until later, I'm really in pain by the time I make it to the parking lot that indicates I have 2.7 miles to go to reach Bamforth. I cry for the first time as I sit on a rock and listen to a voice memo from my partner, who will be bringing salad and arch support and moral support when he meets me the next evening. I really really really don't want to do this climb, and just as I'm thinking that, another hiker who is starting from that point gets dropped off. We laugh and climb together, which makes the time pass quickly. We make it to Bamforth by 3pm and, although I'm tempted to try to make it up and over Camel's Hump, I'm worried about getting caught on the exposed summit. Instead, I camp wash my hair and read a book and eat a snack and chat with the other hikers at the shelter, trying to figure out how much misery waits for me the next day. I'm concerned at how much my arches are dying — even walking around camp has started to cause serious pain, but I'm unwilling to even consider stopping, especially since I know my partner will be meeting me with inserts soon. I'm repeatedly warned about Mt. Ethan Allen and go to bed anxious, knowing that I have a long day in front of me. Rain finally starts at midnight, and I spend the night frustrated that I didn't choose to summit while the rock was dry. Day 9: the day the stream is the trail 13.6 miles: Bamforth to Birch Glen I wake up and am on the trail at 6:45, intensely nauseated and stressed, and only manage to choke down some fruit snacks before beginning the 3.5 mile climb up to Camel's Hump. After a miserable hour of hiking where I try to decide whether I need to puke or something else, I dig an emergency cathole in the woods and feel much better for it afterward. I put some food in my stomach, play some worship music, and make 2 false-summits before reaching the top of Camel's Hump. On my way up, I slip down several feet of sheer rock before I'm able to arrest my fall, which is a jolt of adrenaline. I also give up on keeping my shoes dry: there is literally water rushing through the path, and I resign myself to having some very wet feet as the day goes on. The summit is socked in by fog, which is beautiful but frustrating, and the descent is almost straight down wet rock. By the time I make it to Montclair for lunch, I'm worried that I'll be hiking in the dark if I can't pick up the pace — I'm expecting the next 5 miles to be slow-going. I give myself 30 minutes to dry off my feet and take care of my blisters and roll out my arches and hope that my body cooperates for the rest of the day (and the rest of the hike), the only time I stop moving until I get to my destination at 6:30. Instead, I'm pleasantly surprised: the miles go by quickly and the terrain is no worse than anything I've climbed so far. Burnt Rock is challenging but beautiful, far enough below the tree line that I can see views of the mountains. I fall in the stream butt-first at one point, but my dry bag and the trash bag that lines my pack keeps that from being anything more than an inconvenience. I play music for the last few miles, get water before I reach camp, and make it my goal to cover the last 2 miles in less than the time it will take to listen to the Greatest Showman soundtrack. I beat my goal by 2 songs and immediately take off my soaked shoes and change into my long-sleeve shirt. Then I hear the distinctive sound of my partner clearing his throat as he approaches the shelter and suddenly the day of wet rock and wet trail and wet feet is forgotten — I have company and I get my first hug in 9 days and life is wonderful. I wring water out of my socks as we talk about what the trail has been like so far, we eat salad (!!) and canned peaches and graham crackers that he packed in, and I feel like the luckiest person alive as I get to share this adventure with a person that I love. Day 10: so this is what the trail is like 15.2 miles: Birch Glen to Sunset Ledge (primitive-camped) It's just Ryan and me at the shelter in the morning, and we take our time cooking breakfast, eating bacon and eggs that Ryan packed in as I boil water for coffee. When we set off from camp, we immediately start hiking uphill and continue to do so for the next 3 miles, climbing over rocks and pulling ourselves up the trail, sometimes literally. We can see Camel's Hump in the distance, and it's wild to me that something I climbed just yesterday already looks so far away. The day is sunny and clear — something I tell Ryan is not normal — but the trail is muddy and the climbs are steep, so he's still experiencing many of the realities of the trail. We summit several ski mountains and eat Swedish Fish and soak in the views and time together. With Ryan, I hike faster than my usual pace but also stop more often: I normally only pause for lunch and eat snacks while moving, but we both enjoy taking time to sit and enjoy views while sharing Chicken in a Biskit crackers and crunching on apples. Despite the morale boost of having Ryan here, my legs are feeling the effects of 10 straight days of high mileage and long climbs; when I first planned my itinerary using Guthooks, I underestimated mileage by as much as 2 miles per day, and today is no exception — I realize later that we went 15.2 miles rather than the 14 I had planned for. By the time we make it up Mount Abraham, my arches are screaming and my legs are tired and I'm ready to be done with 3 miles left to go. We're hoping to make it to Sunset Ledge in time to see the sunset, which promises to be stellar, which motivates me to keep moving, as does following Ryan (who I mentally trail-named Billy Goat because of how quickly he can move down the rocky downhills). We pick up my resupply at his car at Lincoln Gap, then hike fast up the 1.1 miles to Sunset Ledge; although it's all uphill, the trail is primarily smooth dirt and has switchbacks, making it one of the fastest miles of the day. We've timed our hike perfectly and we have some wiggle room before losing daylight, so we set up the tent, change into camp clothes, preset our bear hang, and start making dinner. The views are wild and the sunset is beautiful and we eat a hot meal while watching the colors fade out and the stars starts appearing. Ryan makes a run down to the car at 10 pm (boyfriend of the year!!) to retrieve the arch supports we forgot at the car because, as he puts it, "one hour of discomfort for me will avoid 4 more days of discomfort for you"). I wander around camp in circles for 20 minutes trying to find the bear hang and make it back to the tent just as Ryan jogs back up from the car. The night is cool and the stars are bright and I'm grateful to have a buddy at our campsite. Day 11: I get a trail name 11.3 miles: Sunset Ledge to Skyline Lodge We wake up in the morning to more good weather and I discover that, for the first time in 4 days, my socks have totally dried out overnight. We cook breakfast and break down camp and when I put on my backpack, I notice that it is totally and completely soaked. I'm worried that I popped my water bladder when I fell the day before, but discover that the lid of it just wasn't totally fastened. Although I'm starting the day with a wet butt and back, I'm just happy that all my gear is intact and everything will dry. I say goodbye to Ryan, who will hike back down to his car, and hop back on the trail, bummed that he's leaving but buoyed by the promise of a zero day in Killington in 4 days. 20 minutes into the hike, I pass by two GMC caretakers who strike up a conversation with me. When one discovers I don't have a trail name yet, she asks what's on my hat and, after hearing that it's lemons, she nicknames me Zester. Suddenly, I feel like a real hiker, and despite blisters and tired legs and a little bit of loneliness, the Long Trail feels like a place that I really belong. The rest of the day passes slowly — it's grey and humid and I can't find a rhythm and wow does my body hurt, but I listen to music and feel grounded by my labored breathing and pounding heartbeat as I climb yet another uphill. At the top of Mount Wilson, I take an hour to sit and look at the views and eat my remaining Swedish Fish and chat with a trail runner, who assures me that there is a 15-mile section coming up after Brandon Gap that is fully and completely trail-runnable. I pass another group of hikers who have settled in at a shelter when I stop to get water, and I'm excited to introduce myself using my trail name for the first time. By the time I make it to Skyline Lodge, I'm ready for a hot meal and for bed. For the first time on the trail, I'm alone at a shelter and, at first, this is panic-inducing. I let myself cry and feel sorry for myself for 20 minutes, but then do some grounding techniques and focus on how far from a road I am and how I've been craving alone time anyway. I cook my pasta and call Ryan and crawl into bed, where I'm so tired that I fall asleep within minutes. Day 12: sunshine changes the game 9.7 miles: Skyline to Sucker Brook I set my alarm for the sunrise, which Guthooks emphasizes should be incredible, but can only see a tinge of pink on the left edge of the sky — the rest is grey from the ever-present fog. I'm exhausted and know I have a short day in front of me, so I crawl back into my sleeping bag without setting an alarm and wake up at 8 feeling rested and happy and ready to go. I have 2 clean pairs of socks left and 3 days before I can do laundry, so I let myself put on a fresh, dry pair, the first time I've gotten to do that in at least 4 days. This is a game-changer and I can't stop smiling as I start the hike. Sometime in the afternoon, I pass the halfway point and it starts to sink in that I've powered myself through 135 miles of mud and ass-kicking climbs and knee-crunching descents. Ryan's arch supports have already made a difference and my pain levels have gone from searing to dull, making the remaining half of the trail feel far more manageable. The day passes quickly and ends at just the right time and I have the shelter to myself for almost 2 hours. In that time, I rinse out my underwear and lay out my clothes in the sun to dry and cook instant mashed potatoes and do yoga and soak in the feeling of sunshine soaking through my long-sleeve shirt. I'm warm and dry and happy and take the time to open my trail journal and write down more than what happened that day, jotting down the lessons the Long Trail has taught me and what my priorities are and what rhythms I want to establish when I get back to "real life." I'm eventually joined by two high-school graduates and we talk about jazz music and religion and the universe and books we recommend, and then we make a fire to dry out our clothes even more and I genuinely could not ask for a better day. Day 13: a zero is coming soon 12.8 miles: Sucker Brook to David Logan The three of us wake up at 6:30 to absolutely pouring rain, something that does little for the morale. Up until now, it's mostly rained overnight, so I tell myself that I'm overdue for this anyway. I change into my trail clothes before I leave the shelter, a good call because I'm soaked by the time I'm done wrestling my Ursack off the tree, but at least I'll have dry clothes that night when I get to camp. Back inside the shelter, I bundle into my puffy and eat my breakfast inside my sleeping bag, psyching myself up for a day that promises to be wet wet wet. I'm only a few minutes into the hike when the rain starts to slow and I can feel my mood lift as the dampness dissipates. The trail can't decide whether it wants to go up or down, but I don't mind; the elevation is less significant than most other days I've done thus far, and I'm enjoying the company of my own thoughts. Coming down Mount Horrid, I slip on the third-to-last step and whack the edge of my left hand on a rock. I'm concerned because my pinky is totally numb and starts to swell, but there's nothing I can do except hike on and hope I didn't break anything. My luck holds: within an hour, feeling comes back and, except for some stiffness, I'm totally fine. As soon as I cross Brandon Gap, the trail becomes noticeably smoother and more level, featuring real dirt instead of just jagged rock. I enjoy winding my way through foggy woods and get lost in the company of my own thoughts. Just before the elevation gain returns, I pass an AT hiker who has returned to finish the northern section of the LT, who tells me I'm "ballsy" for going SOBO. I spend the rest of the day telling myself that I'm a badass and getting excited for the next day, which promises a REAL shower at the end of it! I also get hit hard by hiker's hunger, something that will stick around for the rest of the trail. At David Logan, there are 5 NOBO hikers who are happy to share stories, and we spend the evening laughing and joking about what we have in store on the trail in front of us. I stretch and eat a spare PopTart and then read for a bit, content and excited for the Inn at the Long Trail the next day. Day 14: it's here it's here it's here 13.9 miles: David Logan to the Inn at the Long Trail I am raring to go when I wake up and can't wait to get the day started: the faster I hike, the sooner I'm done! I roll out of camp by 8:30 — not an early start, but not particularly late — and set off. Most of the morning is spent soaking in the details of nature around me: I'm enjoying small orange mushrooms and a random overlook I pass and the way the sunshine filters through the trees. I stop and eat lunch 7 miles into the day, perfectly halfway between David Logan and my final destination. An older hiker, Little John, assures me that the day's forecasted thunderstorm will pass by us, so I take my time after lunch, pausing to soak in the sun as I cross abandoned logging areas. Around 2:30, thunder crashes overhead and the skies open up with little warning and I am totally and completely drenched in my first time hiking through a thunderstorm on the LT. Any other day, this would be concerning — I have goosebumps and didn't even have time to get my raincoat out of the brain of my pack. Today, I'm comforted by the dryer that waits for me at the Inn and instead just chalk it up as part of the experience: I've always loved walking in the rain and there's no better moment to do it than now! And then, before I know it, I'm at Maine Junction and there's the sign that indicates that the LT and the AT are diverging and I know that I have approximately 100 miles left to go on this trail that has become my happy place. Although I have the option of taking Sherburne Pass, which will let out directly by the LT, I'm determined to only white-blaze the LT and instead meander through the trail. I've made great time moving through the storm and have crushed these miles faster than any other day on the LT, so I have some time to kill before my parents make it into town to meet me and I'm in no hurry. I dry out as I walk thanks to the sunshine that's coming through the trees and I genuinely cannot stop smiling as I go — I just keep thinking "how lucky am I???" The LT is an exercise in being thankful for the little things, and blue skies and clear light have become things I treasure. I make it to the parking lot and cross the road and sit on a rock and let myself take a breath — I've made it 14 full days on the Long Trail, despite never having done more than a single-night backpacking trip before setting off on this solo SOBO adventure, and I'm one mile down the road from not having to hike at all the next day. With that in mind, I set off toward the Inn along the busy road, methodically beating out my steps in rhythm with my hiking poles and my breathing, and before I know it I'm there and check in to my room and take a shower and feel like a new woman by the time my parents arrive.
I eat blueberries that they brought as we talk about highlights of the trail and the storm they drove through (that I had just hiked in) and joke about how all I had to do to get real, visible abs was carry a third of my bodyweight up and over mountains for two weeks. That night, I eat the best veggie burger I've ever tasted and split desserts with my parents and fall asleep on the pullout couch — I wake up once in the middle of the night totally and completely disoriented, and it takes me a minute of feeling above my head for a bunk or the walls of my tent to realize that I'm back in civilization, an adjustment that feels both larger and simpler than I expected. During my senior spring semester, I sat down at the computer and Googled "Crest Trail," a search that drastically changed my summer plans. (You can read more about how forgetting to add the word "Tetons" to the search bar led to me hiking 273 miles through Vermont here). One year to the day earlier, I had an appointment to remove a Holter monitor that I had kept on for 24 hours to track my heartbeat. The cardiologist who initially ordered the test thought it would be just a precaution, but the results showed approximately 4500 PVCs (4.5% of my heartbeats). While everything eventually stabilized once I took iron supplements to counteract my severe anemia, limited my caffeine intake, and started sleeping more, that was a scary few months of my life. I'd spent 9 months feeling dizzy, light-headed, and fatigued (thank you, iron level of 3), which made exercise really challenging and meant that even the walk up the hill to get to campus felt like a workout. All of that to say, by the time March 2021 rolled around, I was grateful for good health, happy that vaccines were making adventures possible again, and looking for a stellar way to spend my last summer before entering the workforce. Cue: the Long Trail. In the space of about a week, I went from never having heard about it to deciding that I was all in, which also meant that I had some serious commitments to juggle while prepping for the LT :) The months before hopping on the trail looked something like this: March: decide I want to thru-hike, Google allllll the Long Trail things, read a bunch of blogs, go through midterms, start ramping up a photography business April: present at research conferences, interview for a job, balance classes, accept job offer, do several photo sessions, order the Long Trail map, set itinerary May: finals week, senior week, graduation, 8 photo sessions mixed throughout those events, order all remaining gear during REI Memorial Day sale, plan meals June: go home for brother's graduation, return to Ithaca, finish editing all photos, test all gear on a shakedown hike, have a friend from home visit, go to Maine for 9 days, finish grocery shopping, prep all food and resupplies, move out of my apartment, go back to PA, and drive up to Vermont the next day July: hop on the Long Trail on the 1st and be thrilled to be done planning ;) But actually, getting ready for the Long Trail was simultaneously one of the most stressful and exciting experiences of my life. If I had to do it again, I'd give myself more than 3 days between a vacation, moving out/deep-cleaning an apartment, and starting a thru-hike, but I think all the bouncing around made it hard to get too nervous about the trail itself! If you're someone looking at doing the LT (or just getting interested in backpacking in general), I really can't recommend reading blogs/recaps from others enough. Although I didn't have a lot of personal experience before hopping on the trail, I learned so much from reading what other people wished they hadn't brought on their hikes or what prevented them from finishing. I knew some of the mental challenges that lay ahead and had some sense of how challenging the trail would be. Obviously internet research can only take you so far; it's important to know how to use all your gear, to practice the principles of Leave No Trace, and to have a handle on your physical, mental, and emotional limits before starting the hike. However, reading how others have navigated their hikes, what gear they loved (or didn't), what meals they ate, and what they learned on the trail is a very beneficial piece of the puzzle. As a general disclaimer, I'm no expert and can only share what worked for me on the trail. I wasn't super ultralight with my gear because I didn't have a ton of financial resources to invest in new items and could borrow things from friends (and we all know free is the best price). But if you're curious to see what I carried, skim through the list below to see my gear and scroll a little farther to see what food options worked best for me on the LT :) ; Out of all the prep work that I did before the trail, gear research definitely took the most time and energy. I spent hours reading reviews on everything from hammocks to tents to water bladders, trying to decide what gear I could borrow from friends and what I needed to purchase. My biggest concerns were 1. how I would store my food 2. what I would use as my shelter and 3. how I would contact emergency services. I decided against a bear can or a typical bear hang in favor of the Ursack Major/Opsack liner combination, which gave me no issues during the trail. On the nights when I got to camp late or the mornings when it was pouring, it was awesome to be able to tie the Ursack to a tree using a figure-8 knot — although I'm a little spatially challenged, so this sometimes took a bit ;) — rather than having to chuck a rock at a tree for a bear hang or add extra weight/volume to my pack via a bear canister. While I HIGHLY recommend using the Ursack, make sure you know how to use it WELL. It should be tied about 5ft up on a tree, closed using a square knot and secured using a figure-8 knot. Additionally, you should be super careful to not get any food smells on the outside of the bag or odorproof liners. I was careful and had no issues with bears or mini-bears (squirrels, chipmunks, etc) while on the trail! One of my friends had a tent she was willing to let me borrow, which solved my hammock vs. tent dilemma. Although the hammock might have been more comfortable at times, I loved the privacy of a tent, the ability to keep all of my gear dry inside of it, and being away from the bugs. I did see many people on the trail hammocking, so if that's your method of choice, I'm sure you'd be fine! Finally, after researching communication devices, I purchased a Garmin inReach mini and am incredibly happy with my decision. I'll put out a full review soon, but the pros (communicating with family, preset messages, SOS button) outweighed the small cons (it could take a little while to lock onto a signal and the subscription plans can be pricey). Okay, onto the gear list! The Big 3
Clothing
Cooking & Hydration
Personal Care
Other Gear
Leading up to the trip, I was most concerned about figuring out what food options would sound good while hiking. On previous camping trips (which were never longer than a weekend, and often only an overnight), I wasn't hungry and food never sounded particularly stellar. While it was challenging to get enough calories over the first few days of the trip because of low hunger levels, hiker's hunger kicked in big time on day 13 and pretty much stuck around for the last 11 days of the trip. I was intentional about taking in at least 2700 calories a day, but probably was closer to 3000+ depending on the day/terrain/hunger level. Meals looked something like this:
Breakfast: Pop-Tarts and Quaker oatmeal packets (I personally love the fruit & cream flavors, especially peaches & cream, strawberries & cream, and blueberry-strawberry) Lunch: Tortillas with peanut butter and raisins for the first 5 days of the trip; hamburger rolls/buns with hard cheese (typically smoked gouda) for the rest of the trip Snacks:
Dinner: This was definitely my most-varied meal, but it almost always involved a noodle haha. Options included:
Note: I typically follow a vegetarian diet, but made exceptions for tuna packets. You could definitely exclude those from your meal plan and replace with another protein source, like PB or other nuts :) If you have any questions about preparing for the Long Trail, gear that I used, or anything else, please feel free to reach out to me! And by that, I mean I'm starting my first-ever thru-hike: the Long Trail in Vermont!
How did I get here? On March 11, I spent some quality time Googling the Crest Trail, intending to start planning for a fun summer trip with my partner. What I didn't know until that Google search was that there are actually (at least) two Crest Trails: the Teton Crest Trail, which is between 35 and 45 miles, and the Pacific Crest Trail, which is a 2,650 mile thru-hike from Mexico to Canada. At first, the idea of a thru-hike seemed absolutely bonkers to me, especially since I had only ever done two-day overnight trips (none of them backpacking) and didn't even have my own backpacking pack. I quickly ruled out the thought of ever doing something like the PCT (although I should never say never), but I also quickly started Googling things like "short thru hikes" & saw the Long Trail featured on almost every list. Thus, planning my thru-hike adventure began! I'm very much a look-before-I-leap type of person, so the impulsive decision was slightly out of character for me. Let's chalk it up to one year of COVID, 3 semesters of online classes, and a strong desire to travel ASAP once my college's county travel limit no longer applied :) More than that, though, the Long Trail was so exciting to me because it would give me a chance to do something that is completely, 100%, my "thing." My partner and friends happen to be exceptionally outdoorsy people who have casually run marathons, can rock climb routes with one hand behind their back (literally) that challenge me with all 4 limbs, and know their stuff when it comes to camping. And while I've always loved to be along for the ride on the adventures, the LT was something that felt totally out of my comfort zone, but also totally in my wheelhouse. A brief summary The LT is an (approximately) 273 mile hike through the state of Vermont, more affectionately known as "Vermud," that comes close to towns but never passes through them. The route is the oldest continuous footpath in the United States and was built before there were switchbacks, which means it goes straight up and over peaks rather than winding its way up the mountains or between them. So why do I think I'm capable of taking on the LT? It is (extremely) physically demanding but also newbie friendly: it will be tough as hell, but I'll never be more than 3 days from a town or more than 10 miles from a road, which makes it (relatively) easy to bail and/or seek help if it's needed. I've spent years running XC, training for several half (and one full) marathons, and navigating some incredibly challenging emotional losses/hardships, all of which have helped me develop a strong sense of mental and physical resilience. I also love planning, which lends itself well to mapping out my main route, making contingency plans, scheduling resupplies, and locking in my gear (all of which are just a little important for a thru hike). Being completely honest, I would definitely have preferred to have more experience under my belt before starting the LT, but I can't go back in time & know this is probably one of the last summers where I will not need to navigate the headache of paid time off, so the idea of getting on the LT before post-college responsibilities take over is incredibly appealing. So what am I doing? I'll be attempting a SOBO (southbound) End-to-End thru hike of the trail, starting at the Journey's End parking lot in Northern Vermont and making my way down to the southern terminus at the border of Vermont and Massachusetts. Right now, I'm estimating that it will take me 24 days with one "zero day" of no mileage and two "nearo" days where I go fewer than 10 miles. I'll average 11.8 miles per day and will resupply 5 times: twice from meeting up with people and three times in towns (Johnson, Killington, and Manchester), all of which are within 3 miles one-way from the LT. That's important because I have no desire to hitchhike, both because I'll be a solo female for most of the trip (my incredible friend is doing the first few days with me!!) and because we're still in a global pandemic. Aren't you scared? Um, honestly, yes. The scariest thing for me in this moment is the thought of camping solo overnight — it's genuinely a little panic inducing. I'm bringing melatonin and earplugs and plan to stay in the shelters along the trail as often as possible to (hopefully) have some company. I'm also bringing a headlamp with extra batteries that will allow me to night-hike if I'm ever getting bad vibes from someone in a shelter with me (although the odds of that are incredibly slim). BUT I have my water purification system set up, my gear is purchased, and my food is planned, so those variables don't feel nearly as overwhelming as they did at first. And to be blunt, I'm sick of not doing things just because I'm scared. Life is too short for me to be content with sticking to safe choices. As my high school communications teacher always reminded me, "Uncomfortable is good, unsafe is bad." I'm 99% confident that I have eliminated any chances for something outside of an act of God to result in a life-threatening situation and have done my research on animal/human/medical/etc safety for the trail, so all that I'm left with is discomfort — so to the LT I go. I Go to Seek a Great Perhaps Here's the thing: I have no idea what will happen over these next 24 days. Well, I'll walk a lot and will stop in some towns and will encounter rain and mud and black flies. But besides that, expectations are low and excitement is high. And while I have no intentions of bailing at this point, I will absolutely get off the trail if I believe that my safety (or the safety of those around me) will be compromised, whether that's due to illness or injury or something else. Otherwise, I'm sticking it out. It'll be hard (really hard) and the miles will be long (sometimes really long), but I also know that I will learn so much while simultaneously reminding myself that 1. nature is amazing 2. my body is amazing (and capable of doing so much) and 3. that I have the chance to make every day of my life into an amazing adventure, regardless of where I am. I'll close out this novel of a post with a nod to one of my favorite books. "Francois Rabelais. He was a great poet. And his last words were 'I go to seek a Great Perhaps.' That's why I'm going. So I don't have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps." — Miles, Looking for Alaska. *This is a continuation of my last post, which outlined some of the basic information about Sage Corps and what I did my first few days in Amsterdam with my cohort!* This post primarily focuses on the second half of the program, which is where we really jumped into working with our start-up organizations. My cohort of 12 was divided into three teams of 4 and we worked with 3 different start-ups: Project Fearless, PR Lab, and Pikaplant. I was on the marketing track with Pikaplant and really had an incredible experience. I'm a junior journalism major at Ithaca College and I had no previous marketing experience whatsoever, so I had no idea what to expect as an intern. I will say that Sage Corps prepares you incredibly well for working with the start-up. To be perfectly honest, I didn't make it through all of the training modules on their website, but I did do all of the modules attached to the Project Proposal & Deliverables that my team received prior to flying to Amsterdam. Throughout the experience, I found myself saying "In the modules, they referenced ___," so trust me, they are really helpful. (As a bonus, those modules were through LinkedIn Learning, so now I have several skill certifications I can display on my LinkedIn profile). We had Monday through Thursday to prepare for our presentation for the CEO on Friday, and within those four days, we were asked to deliver the following: 1. A coherent 2020 Social Media Marketing Plan 2. Estimated costs for marketing channels. 3. Competitive market landscape 4. Recommended recurring revenue streams/models Our work days ran from approximately 9 to 5, but due to some flexible hours (we ended early on Monday to go the Van Gogh Museum due to a mix-up with ticket dates, and attended a professional development panel with female start-up leads at 4 p.m. on Tuesday), my team met for some short periods in the evenings to make sure we stayed on track to meet the deliverables. Sage Corps Day 5: First Day at Pikaplant This day was intended to let us dive deep into research, make sure we understood the product goals, and to get a rough outline developed for what we would be producing throughout the week. As a team, we met with our CEO in the morning to ask a few questions, then worked on our own until after lunch, where we re-convened to provide an update of what had been accomplished. On our first day, we:
We left Pikaplant around 2:50 in order to head to the Van Gogh Museum, which was absolutely phenomenal. Although — much to my disappointment — Starry Night wasn't at the museum (it's kept at the MOMA in NYC), I loved getting to see the progression of his work and how he both was influenced by and influenced other artists. His style of using texture, color, and brushstrokes created profound art pieces, and I'd definitely love to revisit the museum again someday! We had a few hours on our own to decompress and explore, then the cohort reconvened to go on a Canal Boat Tour at 8 p.m., where we heard more about the history of Amsterdam and some fun facts about the city. (Did you know that over 1,300 bikes are fished out of the canals every year and that — at the lowest estimate — there are over 600,000 bicycles in the city at any given time?) Once the canal tour was over, we headed back to the hotel, where I worked on this blog post and prepped for the next day of working with Pikaplant! Sage Corps Day 6: Project Work & Female Founders Panel Tuesday ended up being a deep dive into our project — we met with our CEO right before lunch & gave us a lot of feedback on the work we had done so far, but we definitely had to pivot a bit in our approach. We ended up being pretty happy with the brainstorming and rough outline we were able to get done, which set us up for a really great workday on Wednesday! Jacob Gordon, our amazing City Lead, also coordinated a panel of all-female founders of start-ups in the Amsterdam area, which was super cool to listen to! The four women on stage talked about everything from the hardest part of being an entrepreneur (it's not a 9-5 schedule & there aren't benefits when you start out) to how to deal with sexist comments in a workplace. Our cohort had 8 guys and 4 girls, so it was great to have a chance to discuss how the men around us could act as allies in the business world (and beyond). Sage Corps Day 7 & 8: Project Work Days I didn't separate these two days because their tasks were very similar in scope. By Wednesday evening, my team had:
Sage Corps Day 9: Presentations & Wrap-up The group met at 8:30 in our hotel lobby to take the tram to Impact Hub, the start-up space we were using for our presentations, together, then split off to practice our presentations/grab breakfast from Albert Heijn. Although we were all pretty nervous, the presentations ended up being a little more low-key than we were expecting because of how great our CEOs were & because of how close the cohort got. Each group presented for around 30 minutes, then answered questions from audience members, other CEOs, and our city lead, which was a really valuable learning experience to help us think on our feet. Once presentations wrapped up at 1 (which was a weird feeling, because after putting 40 hours of work into 4.5 days, it feels almost anti-climactic to be done), we didn't have anything officially scheduled for Sage Corps until 7:30. My roommate and I checked out the Albert Cuyp Market, which had the booth of the original Stroopwafel, and picked up souvenirs for some people at home. After that, everyone in the program went their separate ways (I went to a bookstore, which I 10/10 recommend as a way to decompress) until dinner! Dinner was at Oresti's Taverna and was a super fun experience — it was great to reconnect with everyone in the cohort (besides the panel on Tuesday, most of us had only seen the team members we were working with over the past few days) and to celebrate the end of a really phenomenal program. As I'm reflecting on the program two days after it ended, I can say with absolute certainty that the Sage Corps Start! Program far exceeded my expectations. As a Sage Corps Fellow, I was able to grow both personally and professionally while working with a diverse team of students from across the United States (we had students from California to Maine, so we literally spanned the map of the country).
Although I wasn't originally sure how much valuable work we'd actually produce in 5 days, it's so exciting to see how enthusiastic the Pikaplant team was about the research and analysis that we conducted and the CEO asked us to consider acting as remote consultants while he is implementing our suggestions. I had never done any official marketing tasks before and literally had no idea what a competitive market analysis was until I did the modules that Sage Corps emailed to us in our project deliverables, but my experience in Amsterdam has given me tangible skills I can add to my resumé, along with a level of confidence in myself and ability to learn quickly that I can bring into any job interview or workplace that I encounter in the future. I'm also much more comfortable navigating in a new city, learning on the fly, using public transit, and getting outside of my comfort zone than I was before I came to Amsterdam. Sage Corps provided exactly the right amount of free time, work time, and tourist time to allow us to gain valuable workplace expertise without missing out on all the incredible sites (and sights) the city has to offer. Our program fee funded our hotel, the two dinners, our travel expenses (like tram passes), tickets to both Van Gogh and the Rijksmuseum, the excursion to the Zaanse Schans, and a canal tour with the history of Amsterdam, which was incredible. Jacob (our city lead) kept us logistically on-track, provided guidance as we worked through our start-up deliverables and finalized our presentations, took care of navigating and organizing, and was hands-on without being overbearing. It was obvious that the Sage Corps team cared about allowing students to have something as similar to the semester-long study-abroad experience over the course of 9 days, and they both met and exceeded that goal. Sage Corps connected me with a network of peers and professionals that I am excited to continue to stay in touch with. I have a unique internship experience and a strong skillset to accompany it that I can add to my resumé that will make me more competitive in the job market. Most importantly, however, Sage Corps gave me the ability to get outside of my comfort zone and into a city that will always be an incredibly special place to me. and I cannot wait to see what doors the Sage Corps Winter! Start Amsterdam program will open for me in the future. Let's get something straight: I've never had the travel bug.
Ever. As a kid, traveling was stressful. I'm very much a homebody, I love routines, & I like knowing exactly what to expect in an experience. I particularly dislike doing new things alone and have gotten very good at going just to the edge of my comfort zone, then using the buddy system to make a challenge a little less overwhelming. During my freshman year of college, I sat in my dorm room and spent hours making 5 (yes, really) four-year plans. Among others, I briefly entertained the thought of double-majoring and triple-minoring — glad I nixed that one — & debated about going to Chile or Dublin to study abroad. With three minors, two ministries in Ithaca I adore, and a reality check of my Spanish skills (which, while not horrendous, are definitely not good enough to spend a semester in immersion courses for politics, counseling, and journalism), I had come to terms with the thought that I wouldn't spend time abroad. *Enter Sage Corps* I had spent the better part of a week writing & re-writing a cover letter, resumé, and application for a summer internship I wanted desperately. After at least 10 hours of editing and three friends (plus my mom) proof-reading, I hit submit, checked my email, and saw something from (what was at the time) a super random company called Sage Corps. They were running a Winter Start! Program in several different countries, including Dublin, Ireland, which has been on my bucket list for quite a while. Their application involved a few standard questions asking about my name and major, a resumé submission, had me rank my top 3 countries/program location preferences, and a brief (1-3 sentence) short-answer response about why I was interested in partnering with a start-up abroad. I totally expected to never hear anything after I hit submit, which is why I was shocked when I opened my email a few days later and discovered that I was actually accepted to their Amsterdam Winter Start! Program (there wasn't enough interest to run the Dublin one this time around). Saying I was highly skeptical is definitely an understatement: the program costs $2,500 (not including flights) & it seemed like a scam at first. I had 14 days to accept the offer to participate, and I spent a ton of time looking online at various testimonials, talking on the phone and emailing back and forth with Sage Corps representatives (including the CEO), and connecting with previous participants in the program. Eventually, I decided it was worth the risk, submitted the deposit, and crossed my fingers that I'd get something valuable out of the 9 days I would be spending in Amsterdam. Trying to prep for Sage Corps coincided with a super busy semester for me, I had to apply for a new passport and expedite it (because the one I got when I was 12 expired), and I didn't book my flights until Thanksgiving break, so I was a little stressed that something would go wrong or that the experience wouldn't be worth all the hassle. (One recommendation for anyone thinking about doing Sage Corps: definitely prioritize the logistics module and the ones that have you fill out forms! The logistics module goes over the schedule (so when you need to book flights), safety in your host city, and insurance info, so it's important to at least skim through). On the flip side, I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that the Sage Corps Experience is worth every penny. Money from your deposit pays for your hotels, some forms of transportation (we received a 4-day tram pass to cover our transportation costs to our start-up), some "must-sees" (museum tickets, touristy destinations, etc) in your host city, and the costs for the Welcome & Program Close dinners. I'll go more into detail about the start-up internship experience in my next post — this one is already turning into a novel — but this one outlines what the first few days with Sage Corps looked like! Sage Corps Day 1: Welcome & Group Dinner The program starts and ends on the days that are officially listed on the program description (for us, it was January 2nd—11th) & it's totally fine to fly in then! If possible, I do recommend getting there a day or two early to avoid jet lag & familiarize yourself with the city, but most people (9/12 of those in my cohort) got there on the day our program started, so whatever works best for you is great :) The only thing officially on our itinerary (besides checking in to the hotel) was a welcome dinner at 7 p.m., which was a fun chance to get to know everyone! There were 12 members of my cohort from various colleges across the United States, plus a Sage Corps staff member named Jacob (who is wonderful) and a student named Luke who had previously participated in the 8-week Summer Start! program in Amsterdam over the summer. Our group clicked really well right away, so we all explored Amsterdam for a bit together after dinner and then called it a night. Sage Corps Day 2: Orientation, Meet with Start-ups, Explore! This was definitely a super great day. We met up at 9:30 in the hotel lobby, took public transit (Sage Corps covered day passes for everyone) to Rockstart (a local startup hub), where we introduced ourselves to each other, heard about some tips for safety/having a good time in Amsterdam, and got an overview of what Sage Corps had in store for us. After that, we set some personal & professional goals for the trip (mine are below as an example of what we did): Personal Goals:
Professional Goals (set during orientation meeting):
After orientation, we took a break for lunch/to meet up as project teams, then split up to go to our project hubs to meet with the team we would be working with the next week. That was a great time to go over the deliverables (outlined in the professional goals up above), ask questions as a team, and clarify with the CEO what he was hoping the presentation would deliver. We met back up at the Rijksmuseum around 4:30, but it was closing at 5, so the group decided to use the tickets another day and split up for the rest of the night. My group wandered walked through the Vondelpark (we'll go back in the daylight for sure), grabbed some light food/drinks, and visited the MOCO museum, which was incredible! After that, we walked around aimlessly just wandering/exploring as we meandered back to our hotel and got back right around 9:30, which capped off the day perfectly. Sage Corps Day 3: Excursion Day! We left our hotel at 9:15 & took a tour of at Zaanse Schans just outside the city, where we explored some windmills, a cheese factory, and a clog workshop. We started by walking over a bridge to get to the village, which still has some Dutch folk living in it (but has primarily become a tourist attraction). The first indoor stop on the walking tour was the clog factory, where we got to watch them carve a clog from a block of wood in approximately 5 minutes (even though it used to take 3 to 4 hours to carve one clog by hand). After the clog workshop, we had some time to explore the shops in the area, which was a great time to pick up some souvenirs for some family back home. I also ate the best apple & cinnamon sugar pancake I have ever had in my life (seriously, if you're ever in Amsterdam, get a pancake — the Dutch know what they are doing when it comes to breakfast!) After about 30 minutes, we met back up as a tour group and walked through a cheese factory, where we got to sample over 20 types of cheese! My personal favorite was definitely the smoked gouda – 10/10 would recommend. Post-cheese factory, we walked along the river again and got to go inside (and on top of) a working windmill :) It was super interesting to get to hear a bit more about the history of the area — for example, there used to be over 1,000 windmills along the river, and now there are only 13! We even got to see the windmill in action, where large stones were being powered by the windmill in order to crush rock to mix with oil (produced by the mill next door) to make paint. Once we got back to the city, we went to Foodhallen, which is a super fun food market toward the heart of the city with tons of different stands and varieties of foods. Everyone was pretty beat after that, so we parted ways as a cohort for the night. My roommate and I tried out a fun Italian place with some phenomenal onion soup followed by gelato, then made it an early night and came back to the hotel. Sage Corps Day 4: Free Day Although there was nothing officially on the schedule, we definitely used the day to our advantage. Because I had gotten here early, I had already explored some of the areas on the suggested to-do list, but there was definitely a lot more to see :) In the morning, I explored a bit on my own and found a café where I grabbed a light breakfast, then headed to a bookstore to pick up a copy of the Diary of Anne Frank. After that, I met up with some members of the cohort to go to a breakfast spot called Pannenkoekenhuis Upstairs, which was incredible. Once we had eaten brunch, a group of us made our way to the Rijksmuseum (absolutely a must-see if you're in Amsterdam) and took our time going through it to get a better sense of the art and history of the city. I hit a major wall after the museum, so I walked to the 9 Streets District toward the City Centre and spent two hours reading in a café called Bagels and Beans. Once I got back to the hotel, I took some time to catch up on emails, update my planner, and do a little bit of outlining on the objectives we needed to deliver for our start-up, which I'll go over on my next post! :) *Had the best intentions of making a well-thought out recap, accidentally hit the back arrow midway through the post, and decided bullet points would suffice well.* Pre-Amsterdam:
Amsterdam Part A: In-Transit
Amsterdam Part B: Tourism Day 1 (after traveling):
Day 4:
In total, I've walked 22.1 miles over the past 4 days (more like 25, but my phone died multiple times and stopped tracking my steps), have learned a ton about myself & solo traveling, and am super excited to see what the next week and a half with Sage Corps has in store! |
LizWriting, running, reading, and keeping it real along the way. Archives
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