How To Be Alone: an 800-mile hike on the Arizona Trail

4 months earlier

The problem is this: I care way too much about what other people think.

Which restaurant would be best for dinner? What should I wear to the party? Is my work good enough? Am I good enough?

I think about this, about how desperately I seek out other people’s opinions and approval, as I walk along the river near my house in Bend, Oregon. Lately it seems like all of my decisions have been made by committee. I have people that I call about work, people I call about relationships, other people I call to talk about my relationships with that first set of people, different people that I check in with about every little aspect of my life. Am I doing okay? Is this the right choice? Even right now, in this moment, it’s a struggle not to pull out my phone and call someone while I walk. Staying with myself, quietly and without distraction, feels impossible. What is wrong with me that I can’t just… be?

I do not know how this happened, how I got here, how I became a woman that does not trust her own instincts or intuition. Didn’t I used to be a supremely independent only child? Someone who started working at the age of 14, left home at 18, and paid her own way ever since? I had the strength to get sober right before my 26th birthday, and then to choose the uncertain path of creative self-employment soon after that. I must have trusted myself at some point, right?

But now there is a hole inside of me, just a big echoey cavern where my self-belief used to be. What do my friends think I should do with my life? What does my family think? What do strangers on the internet think? That is how I’ve been making my decisions, and it feels gross.

A mile into the walk I reach a fork in the trail; I can continue straight and stay on this gravel road high above the water, or I can veer right and go straight downhill to the dirt path along the river bank. Even this small choice makes me anxious. Which is the better way to go? The right way? I stand there for a few minutes, frustrated with myself. Just pick something, I think. Just pick!

I turn right and head down to the river, walking along it for another few minutes before stopping to sit in the dirt and take my shoes off. It’s a late spring afternoon in Central Oregon and the air is warm and still, smelling of juniper trees and pine needles. I scoot right to the edge of the trail and let my feet dip into the cold rushing water, a river of snowmelt pouring down from the nearby Cascade mountains. Maybe I can’t make decisions, I think, but at least I have managed to do this, to walk here and put my feet into the water. The cold feels good, almost painful in its intensity, but in a welcome way that lets me know that I am alive. When was the last time I felt like this?

It’s not a serious question, not really, and yet the answer pops into my mind anyway, fast and certain. Last year. I felt alive while hiking a small section of the Pacific Crest Trail last year.

It was my first experience with backpacking, the first time I hiked more than a few miles in one day, the first time I pitched a tent, the first time I filtered water, the first time I saw a bear in the wild—and I did all of it by myself. I was terrified almost every minute of every day, but I did it.

When I got home from that trek I thought it would change me, that having hiked and camped and survived completely on my own would make me more confident. If I could stand 30 feet away from a bear in the woods I could do anything, right?

But no. That hike was just so hard. I cried almost every day, constantly feeling the weight of imposter syndrome. I felt like no one belonged out there less than me, and so when I came home I quickly started to believe that that hike had been a fluke, something I had simply gotten lucky enough to complete. It didn’t mean I was tough; it didn’t mean I was resilient; it didn’t mean I knew how to do, well, anything. Whatever tiny seeds of self-belief that trip might have planted within me seemed to wither and die as soon as I took my pack off.

But still, I think to myself now. I did it. Somehow I hiked that hike.

I kick my feet back and forth in the freezing water, seeing how long I can keep them submerged. What if I did another hike, I wonder. A longer hike. A harder hike. Is that where my independence and self-belief are hiding, out there in the woods?

◁ ▷

Mid-June comes and I celebrate my 32nd birthday, eating a big piece of chocolate cake while pulling up all of the various backpacking websites I’ve bookmarked in the past few weeks.

I feel like I want to do it, to go on another solo backpacking trip, but I can’t seem to decide which trail to choose. Scheduling wise I am looking at a late September start, and there don’t seem to be many long hikes in the US that are particularly good that late in the year. I’ve narrowed it down to three options: the Long Trail (270 miles through Vermont), the Superior Hiking Trail (300 miles through Minnesota), and the Arizona Trail (800 miles, border to border from Utah to Mexico).

The two shorter trails make the most sense given my experience level, but for some inexplicable reason I feel pulled toward Arizona. There isn’t as much information available about that trail, and most of the hiking journals I’ve found are from spring hikes, when water in that infamously dry part of the country is more plentiful. Apparently you can do the hike in the fall, but the extreme lack of water and progressively decreasing daylight hours make it a lot more challenging.

Unable to decide for myself (why can’t I ever decide anything for myself these days?) I email the Arizona Trail Association and basically ask them whether or not I am going to die if I attempt this hike—as if that is something that anyone can actually answer for me.

The response I get back, from a man named Sean, includes a sentence that I think about for hours as I lay in bed that night: "The AZT is a challenge at any time of the year, much more so in the fall when there is much less traffic and much less water; I would not recommend it unless one is quite experienced with long distance hiking."

I am not at all experienced with long-distance hiking, so probably I shouldn’t attempt this, right?

Eventually I fall asleep, feeling angry and confused.

◁ ▷

July comes and goes, and I try to put backpacking out of my mind, focus on other things. The Arizona Trail is too hard for me. All of these trails are too hard for me. I’d be better off just accepting it and moving on with my life.

◁ ▷

In August I fly to England for a week with my dear friend Kate Grace, an Olympian who is about to compete in the Track & Field World Championships.

The energy in the stadium during her first round heat is unlike anything I have ever experienced—80,000 people cheering and clapping and stomping their feet in the stands, a pounding sensation that I feel in my bones for hours, well after the race itself has ended.

She makes it through that first round and into the semi-finals, and I try to understand how she developed the kind of courage one needs in order to put themselves out there like that, to try as hard as possible, risking enormous failure, in front of 80,000 people and millions more watching from home around the world. Where does bravery like that even come from?

Back at my hotel after the race I take a hot shower, and I cry the entire time. The intensity of the crowd, their joy and passion and deafening screams, the fact that Kate ran hard enough to make it into the semi-finals—the actual semi-finals of the entire World Championships—it breaks something open inside of me, some new and unstoppable groundswell of emotion, and afterward I find myself unable to seal it back up.

The day of her next race arrives, and I cannot stand still as I wait in line to enter the stadium. I am flooded with nerves and I’m not even the one running today; how the hell does Kate do this? I make it inside and climb the four narrow flights of stairs up to my row, where I perch right at the end of my seat, high above the track, anxiously tapping my fingers against my thighs as I wait for the eight women competing in the 1500m semi-finals to step onto the track.

The race starts, and my heart pounds with secondhand adrenaline as the crowd roars. The runners go around the track once, twice, and with 400m to go Kate begins to fall behind. I am yelling so loudly for her that I feel for a moment like I am going to blackout, and as she crosses the finish line in second to last place I try to imagine how she must be feeling. Proud of making it to the semi-final, of being one of the fastest women in the world at this distance? Gutted about almost coming in last, about not making the finals? Fired up about getting to try again in the future? All of that? None of it? A hurricane of feelings that someone like me, who hasn’t tried half that hard at anything, could never understand?

On the plane ride home I read a book on mental toughness, written by an elite sport psychologist who says that our lives are filled with many moments and chances to be brave, if only we allow ourselves to actually notice those moments and to grab hold of them before they pass.

In the middle of a competition, he writes, there will come a time where you will have the choice to go or not go. I am saying you should go.

I read those words again. In the middle of a competition there will come a time where you will have the choice to go or not go. I am saying you should go.

I am saying you should go.

I underline those last six words with enough force that my pen breaks through the page. Then I open my laptop, connect to the in-flight wifi, and buy a one-way ticket to St. George, Utah—one of the closest airports to the northern terminus of the Arizona Trail.

September 23, 2017

St. George, Utah

I walk through the small terminal toward baggage claim, watching nervously for my pack to come rolling by on the conveyor belt. Other than my wallet and phone, which I hold in one hand, every single thing I’ll need to even attempt this hike is in that bag, and I don’t know what I’ll do if it somehow got lost.

But look, there it is!

I grab it in relief and walk toward the water fountain, which is where I’ll need to make my first big decision of the hike so far: how much water to take for the dry stretch between the start of the trail and the water cache that’s supposed to be present at a highway crossing, 27 miles away. How much water does a person need for 27 miles? I have never hiked for that long without water before. And what if the cache is empty? Is it better to bring less water and risk being thirsty, or to bring more water and risk my pack being too heavy for me to carry?

In the end I decide on five liters, which weighs a total of 11 pounds. I heave the pack onto my back and stagger forward a few steps, trying to get used to the feeling of having 11 pounds of water, plus all of my gear and five days worth of food, resting directly on my shoulders. It doesn’t feel like I can walk even one mile with this pack on. But 800 miles? How.

Outside the terminal I sit on a bench to wait for the shuttle I’ve booked, the one that will drive me almost three hours to the Utah/Arizona border so I can start my hike. But my pick-up time comes and goes, and the shuttle is nowhere in sight. I call the company, and after a few confusing conversations I learn that they forgot to come get me. They just… forgot.

But don’t worry, the woman on the phone says brightly. We’re sending someone right now. She’ll be there in a few hours!

A few hours? That means I won’t be able to start hiking until at least 5pm, and with sunset so early this time of year I won’t make it very far at all tonight. I start to panic as I haul my pack back inside the terminal. Is this a bad sign? Should I even be here? Why didn’t I call to confirm the shuttle yesterday? If I can’t figure out a simple ride to the start of this hike, how will I ever make it through the rest of it?

I spiral like that for a while, being mean to myself about all the ways in which this is somehow my fault. It feels awful to do this though, and eventually I tire myself out with my own negativity.

Enough, I say quietly. You need a mindset change.

So I stand up, buy some sugary snacks from the nearby vending machine, and literally shake the bad feelings off by dancing around. There is no one else here, so I don’t worry too much about looking silly as I shimmy across the linoleum floor. Plot twist! I say out loud, which is what I have decided to call this need to embrace the unexpected. Plot twist, plot twist, plot twist!

I dance until I’m out of breath, and for the rest of the wait I alternate between eating candy and trying to become Tink again. Tink (short for Tinkerbell) is the trail name I was given by some thru-hikers on the PCT last year (hikers who were attempting to complete all 2650 miles of that trail in one go), and I have come to think of Tink as an alter-ego of sorts, the woman I could be, if only I believed in myself. Tink is tough and resilient. Tink doesn’t get frazzled by a delayed shuttle. Tink doesn’t give a fuck.

Somehow, it works—by the time Tiffany pulls up in her 15-passenger van, I am remarkably calm. I am Tink. So the shuttle was late, so what? The trail will still be there when I get there, might as well enjoy this three hour drive. And so we do, talking and laughing the entire time, until the van is bouncing down the final rutted, washed out road up to the Stateline Campground, which is the northern terminus of the Arizona Trail. It feels like we’re truly in the middle of the wilderness here, and I remember something I read in my guidebook about how appropriate it is that both the northern and southern terminuses are in the middle of nowhere because getting to the middle of nowhere defines the AZT experience. Well okay then, I think. Here we go.

Tiffany pulls the van into a parking spot, and as soon as she does I hop out, grab my pack, sign the trail register, pose for a photo, wave goodbye, and walk across the border into Arizona to finally start this hike.

I watch the time on my phone jump back an hour as I go—Arizona doesn’t do daylight savings time, so now it’s 4pm and sunset is supposed to be a little after 6pm, which means I have two hours to get as far as I can tonight. Nothing scares me more than hiking alone in the dark.

I pause as I make it to the edge of the campground, looking behind me at the red and orange rocks of the Vermillion Cliffs. Every step I take from now on is a step closer to Mexico. Mexico! I laugh at the idea that I will ever make it there. 800 miles just seems impossibly far. And in those 800 miles, what?

I climb uphill for a long time out of Utah, and just before 6pm I start to look around for a place to camp. It’ll be dark soon, but all of the ground around me is hard and rocky, not the best for pitching my tent. I hike for another 15 minutes, desperately looking to the left and right of the trail, evaluating my options, until finally my anxiety about the setting sun forces me to just choose the flattest spot I can see and make it work.

The spot is a little ways off the trail, surrounded by low shrubs and hardy piñon and juniper trees, and as I move some bigger rocks out of the way I feel the temperature drop. The wind is picking up as well, and I struggle to get my groundsheet down without it flying away.

Soon the last of the light leaves the sky, and I can barely control my cold, fumbling fingers long enough to get my tent set up. Eventually I do, although I can tell as soon as I’ve climbed inside that I haven’t done a great job of pitching it. This is a new tent, I’ve only practiced setting it up a few times in my grassy backyard at home (why didn’t I practice more? what was I thinking!), and the ground right here is too solid and rocky for my lightweight tent stakes. Not to mention the wind, and the fact that I was rushing to be inside the tent before sunset, but oh well.

I unpack the rest of my gear, change into warmer clothes, and remember that I never ate dinner. I’m not even hungry, but I know that food will help to keep my body temperature up, so I sit in my sleeping bag and eat an energy bar and a handful of tortilla chips.

It’s dark now, the wind is fierce and loud, and I don’t have any cell phone reception. Fear claws at me like a caged animal; I am completely alone somewhere in the Northern Arizona wilderness, imagination going into overdrive about all of the dangers that might be lurking just outside my tent.

Day 2

I do not sleep. Not even for a single minute.

It’s barely dawn when I peek my head out from inside my sleeping bag, and I’m immediately stung by the cold air against my cheeks. It’s 33 degrees, and I’ve spent the night curled into a tight ball wearing all of my layers, listening to the howling wind and the tat-tat-tat of light rain against my tent. Around 3am the rain turned to large chunks of ice, the tat-tat-tat growing louder and louder. An ice storm in Arizona on my very first night.

I think about this as I pack up in the early morning light, shivering uncontrollably, worried that I’m unprepared for this kind of cold. Will it be like this every night? What am I going to do about my numb feet?

I’m slow as I put my things away, not yet sure where everything should go in my pack, not at all settled into the routine of waking up and putting my entire life on my back.

But it’s peaceful as I begin to hike, the world entirely silent in the early morning hours, ground covered in shimmering ice from last night’s storm, and I think about all that awaits me ahead. I won’t pass a single natural water source today, and I’ll need to hike 20 miles to the highway, where my water report indicates that I will find a cache that is probably reliable…. but not always reliable! Which will it be today?

After an hour of hiking I reach the Winter Road Trailhead, which marks the end of passage 43. The 800-mile Arizona Trail is broken up into 43 different passages, ranging from about 8 miles to 35 miles each, and I tap the sign at the trailhead with my palm as I pass and say, One passage down, 42 to go! My voice sounds much more confident than I actually feel.

The sun is up now, and I’m too warm in my down jacket and fleece gloves. I stop long enough to take them off, but as soon as I hike back into the shade I feel cold again. For the next few miles I try different combinations of clothing, alternating between being too hot and too cold, over and over, and in addition to the constant costume changes I also need to stop two other times to remove small, thin cactus spikes from the tops of my shoes. This, I know, is a sign of what’s to come. Everything is sharp and venomous on the AZT, the internet warned me. "You’re going to be picking thorns and pieces of cactus out of your skin and clothes for weeks."

I soon come to a barbed wire gate that marks the Kaibab Forest boundary, and no matter how many different ways I look at it I can’t figure out how it opens, so I am stuck. Eventually I resort to tossing my pack over the top of the gate and carefully squeezing myself through a gap in the sharp wire. I’m not even three hours into my first full day on trail and already I’m fighting cactus thorns and barbed wire fences?

This hike is too hard for you, I think sullenly. And for the next few miles it takes all of my energy to keep these thoughts from overtaking my mind. I try to focus on the trail instead, watching it beneath my feet as it goes from rocky and uneven to soft red sand to hard-packed brown dirt. I cross open plateaus and wooded forests, alternating back and forth between them in the morning sun, until I’ve covered 10 miles.

I sit in the dirt for a break, shoes off, stretching absentmindedly as I mix my chocolate protein shake and eat bread covered with peanut butter. I peer inside my food bag, I definitely brought too much food