Hiking Journey Quotes

Returning home is the most difficult part of long-distance hiking; You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits.

You need mountains, long staircases don't make good hikers.

I love going out of my way, beyond what I know, and finding my way back a few extra miles, by another trail, with a compass that argues with the map…nights alone in motels in remote western towns where I know no one and no one I know knows where I am, nights with strange paintings and floral spreads and cable television that furnish a reprieve from my own biography, when in Benjamin’s terms, I have lost myself though I know where I am. Moments when I say to myself as feet or car clear a crest or round a bend, I have never seen this place before. Times when some architectural detail on vista that has escaped me these many years says to me that I never did know where I was, even when I was home.

My most memorable hikes can be classified as 'Shortcuts that Backfired'.

The clamor of 'What have I gotten myself into?' was a mighty shout. It could not be drowned out. The only possible distraction was my vigilant search for rattlesnakes. I expected one around every bend, ready to strike. The landscape was made for them, it seemed. And also for mountain lions and wilderness-savvy serial killers. But I wasn't thinking of them. It was a deal I'd made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I actually wasn't afraid.

Feeling LOW? Go on mountains.

How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.

Well, if you ask me what’s so special about this place.. aku akan bilang, most of the time, beauty lies in the simplest of things. Kayak semilir angin pagi dari teras kamar. Minum air tanpa harus dijerang lebih dulu. Makan sayuran hijau yang baru dipetik. Mendaki kebun teh di siang hari, di tengah gerimis. Menyeruput kuah dengan berisik, setelah kenyang menyantap rebusan rebung muda. Sarapan di kedai mi sederhana yang pernah masuk program televisi. Berjalan kaki sepanjang pasar malam yang dihiasi temaram lentera kertas. Menuliskan doa di kuil. Minum teh hangat di atap terbuka, di bawah hamparan langit berbintang. Hiking di rain forest dan menikmati alam terbuka. Ini hanya kisah perjalanan sederhana, dibumbui beberapa gigitan nyamuk, oleh-oleh sepasang sumpit kayu, dan petualangan kuliner yang nambah-nambahin bobot timbangan. Ini cerita tentang menemukan sesuatu yang nggak terduga, di tempat yang tidak disangka. Semua dari sebuah desa kecil bernama air. And that’s the beauty of small things. Don’t you agree?

It is astonishing how ideas can change an experience. How we can be in a beautiful forest, on a hike through verdant beauty, but if someone told us that the forest was the site of a brutal massacre, the entire hike would be transformed. It would turn ominous and sad. Or if I was told the forest was where Walk Whitman had walked every morning before working on "Leaves of Grass," the place would take on a holy majesty. Same forest. Same trail and trees. But the idea layered on top of it mutates it, glorifies or damns it.

[W]hen it comes to goal pursuit, it really is the journey that counts, not the destination. Set for yourself any goal you want. Most of the pleasure will be had along the way, with every step that takes you closer. The final moment of success is often no more thrilling than the relief of taking off a heavy backpack at the end of a long hike. If you went on the hike only to feel that pleasure, you are a fool.

We spend a lifetime working hard to accumulate homes and possessions that we believe are vital for comfort and security, only to discover those material accumulations are quite meaningless in our darkest hour of sadness and need. Another

hiking the Appalachian Trail is 100% about the journey and experience, and not just saying that you did it.

There is of course a deep spiritual need which the pilgrimage seems to satisfy, particularly for those hardy enough to tackle the journey on foot.

If you face the rest of your life with the spirit you show on the trail, it will have no choice but to yield the same kind of memories and dreams.

Something that has been eluding me for years has finally overtaken me. Contentment. I’ve been living life too fast. But now that I’m traveling at two miles per hour, contentment has caught up with me. God, why do we make our lives so difficult, trying to find contentment? I

The world is full of books, movies and stories about how the loss of a loved one, or a change in fortune, or a severe illness or another tragedy of such magnitude catapulted someone to reset their lives and chase long-forgotten dreams. I’m thinking of Cheryl Strayed, who hiked the Pacific Crest Trail solo after the unexpected and heartbreaking death of her mother, and Elizabeth Gilbert, who embarked on a year-long journey around the world after a painful divorce and depression. I admire their grit to pick themselves up and do something extraordinary in the face of tragedy. But what about the tragedy of a mundane, average, unfulfilling life?

bandaged. The wound is mortal and yet you do not die. That is its own impossible agony. But grief is not simple sadness. Sadness is a feeling that wants nothing more than to be sat with, held, and heard. Grief is a journey. It must be moved through. With a rucksack full of rocks, you hike through a black, pathless forest, brambles about your legs and wolf packs at your heels. The grief that never moves is called complicated grief. It doesn’t subside, you do not accept it, and it never—it never—goes to sleep. This is possessive grief. This is delusional grief. This is hysterical grief. Run if you will, this grief is faster. This is the grief that will chase you and beat you. This is the grief that will eat you.

Hiking connects us to ourselves. A University of Michigan study found that because our senses evolved in nature, by getting back to it we connect more honestly with our sensory reactions. Which connects us with our true selves, and enhances a feeling of “oneness.” Or perhaps we could say, a Something Else.

Of all the things that convinced me that I should not be afraid while on this journey, of all the things I’d made myself believe so I could hike the PCT, the death of my mother was the thing that made me believe the most deeply in my safety: nothing bad could happen to me, I thought. The worst thing already had.

Mountain’s realization comes through the details of the breath, mountain appears in each step. Mountain then lives inside our bones, inside our heart-drum. It stands like a huge mother in the atmosphere of our minds. Mountain draws ancestors together in the form of clouds. Heaven, Earth and human meet in the raining of the past. Heaven, Earth and human meet in the winds of the future. Mountain mother is a birth gate that joins the above and below, she is a prayer house, she is a mountain. Mountain is a mountain.

Trekking means a travelling experience with a thrilling excitement.

Out there in the wild, on a long journey, you hike your own hike, blaze your own trail, and only you can find what you’re looking for.

The next day, I would finish Virginia, the longest state on the AT, and enter West Virginia, the shortest state.

Like with any journey, it’s not what you carry, but what you leave behind.

The finish line is for the ego. The journey is for the soul.” ​-Pattie Gonia

Satisfaction in reaching goals does not always lie in the speed with which we achieve them; sometimes the satisfaction rises from overcoming obstacles and gaining wisdom in our journeys.

It was a deal I’d made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid.

There really is no correct way to hike the trail, and anyone who insists that there is ought not to worry so much about other people's experiences. Hikers need to hike the trail that's right for them...

We spend a lifetime working hard to accumulate homes and possessions that we believe are vital for comfort and security, only to discover those material accumulations are quite meaningless in our darkest hour of sadness and need.

Mountains have long been a geography for pilgrimage, place where people have been humbled and strengthened, they are symbols of the sacred center. Many have traveled to them in order to find the concentrated energy of Earth and to realize the strength of unimpeded space. Viewing a mountain at a distance or walking around its body we can see its shape, know its profile, survey its surrounds. The closer you come to the mountain the more it disappears, the mountain begins to lose its shape as you near it, its body begins to spread out over the landscape losing itself to itself. On climbing the mountain the mountain continues to vanish. It vanishes in the detail of each step, its crown is buried in space, its body is buried in the breath. On reaching the mountain summit we can ask, “What has been attained?” - The top of the mountain? Big view? But the mountain has already disappeared. Going down the mountain we can ask, “What has been attained?” Going down the mountain the closer we are to the mountain the more the mountain disappears, the closer we are to the mountain the more the mountain is realized. Mountain’s realization comes through the details of the breath, mountain appears in each step. Mountain then lives inside our bones, inside our heart-drum. It stands like a huge mother in the atmosphere of our minds. Mountain draws ancestors together in the form of clouds. Heaven, Earth and human meet in the raining of the past. Heaven, Earth and human meet in the winds of the future. Mountain mother is a birth gate that joins the above and below, she is a prayer house, she is a mountain. Mountain is a mountain.

It was a deal I'd made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I actually wasn't afraid. I was working too hard to be afraid.

If the mountains had taught Liz anything, it was that the journey was never about reaching the peak. You climbed – and kept climbing – to push through the struggle and experience the glimpses of beauty along the way. For how the climb made you feel.

What, then, does Christ’s invitation mean? It doesn’t mean He’ll make life as easy as a cruise; instead, He promises to equip us for the long hike. How? By giving us the knowledge and wisdom we need to take the next step at each point on the journey.

How long will it take you to become a master? It doesn’t matter. Imagine getting to a mountaintop after a long hike through a gorgeous forest. Achieving your goal would feel like taking off your backpack. That’s all. You do it for the journey, not the destination.

People disappear hiking all the time, legitimately,” Rambam says. “In my opinion, that’s a great way to disappear. Especially if it’s a young or middle-aged female, because women are snatched off hiking trails all the time for real, and raped and killed and the body hidden. That’s semibelievable.

There were times when I cursed the trail and the weather for hours. But after you sulk and consider your options, you eventually realize that you can sit there and cry, or you can walk... It doesn't matter so much if you cry or walk -- I did a lot of both -- but if you turn on your partner, you'll never make it together.

During forced exercise one day, Louie fell into step with William Harris, a twenty-five-year-old marine officer, the son of marine general Field Harris. Tall and dignified, with a face cut in hard lines, Harris had been captured in the surrender of Corregidor in May 1942. With another American,* he had escaped and embarked on an eight-and-a-half-hour swim across Manila Bay, kicking through a downpour in darkness as fish bit him. Dragging himself ashore on the Japanese-occupied Bataan Peninsula, he had begun a run for China, hiking through jungles and over mountains, navigating the coast in boats donated by sympathetic Filipinos, hitching rides on burros, and surviving in part by eating ants. He had joined a Filipino guerrilla band, but when he had heard of the American landing at Guadalcanal, the marine in him had called. Making a dash by boat toward Australia in hopes of rejoining his unit, he had gotten as far as the Indonesian island of Morotai before his journey ended. Civilians had turned him in to the Japanese, who had discovered that he was a general’s son and sent him to Ofuna. Even here, he was itching to escape.

It was a deal I’d made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid. I was working too hard to be afraid.

The basic process of climbing a mountain was therapeutic, almost cathartic. There was the simple act of walking into the woods and away from the world. Then there was the climb itself, where the body worked: muscles flexed and released, lungs rose and fell, the heart beat. It was as if the complications in my life were breaking down and the only thing I cared about was the next place I'd put my foot or finding something to hold to pull myself up. After all that work to get to the summit came that views from the top. The failed Catholic in me saw it as a spiritual journey, much like the ones any holy man had made in leaving behind society. Christ, Buddha, Muhammad - they all did it, and they came back with clarity. For me the climb was my confession, working out the troubles of my past. Sitting on top was communion. On each hike I allowed myself to be pulled apart and then put back together again.

Hiking calms. According to a study published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, a ninety-minute walk through a natural area led to lower levels of brooding and obsessive worry. Brain scans of the subjects found that there was decreased blood flow to the subgenual prefrontal cortex. Increased blood flow to this region of the brain is associated with bad moods. Everything from feeling sad about something, to worrying, to major depression seems to be tied to this brain region. Hiking deactivates it.

It was a deal I’d made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. And I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid.

I like to imagine us having this conversation on a great hike together when we come upon a break in the trail—a deep and muddy ditch in the middle of the path. I jump right into the ditch and am calling to you from the bottom. You are standing above, wondering why in the world anyone would jump in. It’s muddy and dirty and probably a little smelly, too, and it looks like it’s going to take a lot of work to get to the other side. But I’m calling you down because I know it’s the only way back up. Christ is here ahead of us, and He promises to lead us out. You can stand at the edge of the ditch for as long as you’d like. You can try to find a way around. You can try to jump over. You can try to turn back. But at the end of the day, the only way forward is the way down. You see, I’ve come to such a ravine more than once on my own journey

I'd read the section in my guidebook about the trail's history the winter before, but it wasn't until now—a couple of miles out of Burney Falls, as I walked in my flimsy sandals in the early evening heat—that the realization of what that story meant picked up force and hit me squarely in the chest: preposterous as it was, when Catherine Montgomery and Clinton Clarke and Warren Rogers and the hundreds of others who'd created the PCT had imagined the people who would walk that high trail that wound down the heights of our western mountains, they'd been imagining me. It didn't matter that everything from my cheap knockoff sandals to my high-tech-by-1995-standards boots and backpack would have been foreign to them, because what mattered was utterly timeless. It was the thing that compelled them to fight for the trail against all the odds, and it was the thing that drove me and every other long-distance hiker onward on the most miserable days. It had nothing to do with gear or footwear or the backpacking fads or philosophies of any particular era or even with getting from point A to point B. It had only to do with how it felt to be in the wild. With what it was like to walk for miles for no reason other than to witness the accumulation of trees and meadows, mountains and deserts, streams and rocks, rivers and grasses, sunrises and sunsets. The experience was powerful and fundamental. It seemed to me that it had always felt like this to be a human in the wild, and as long as the wild existed it would always feel this way. That's what Montgomery knew, I supposed. And what Clarke knew and Rogers and what thousands of people who preceded and followed them knew. It was what I knew before I even really did, before I could have known how truly hard and glorious the PCT would be, how profoundly the trail would both shatter and shelter me.

But there will be no anniversary, because today, instead of walking down an aisle, I will be hiking down a trail.

As much as I love hiking and hunting and fishing and camping, I might love the meals that follow just as much. The post-adventure meal is akin to a religious experience. It just cannot be beat. Every time I leave the mountains or woods, my mind turns to where I can get a good greasy meal and cold beverage. And no matter how grubby the restaurant is or how piss poor the food looks, it always ends up being the best meal I've ever had. Always.

The default-mode network has since been implicated in modes of thought like mind-wandering, creative thinking, and dreaming. “As you’re falling asleep, your brain is falling into that default mode where it’s reviewing events from the day,” Stickgold explained. “It’s reviewing everything that has a tag on it that says, ‘You’re not done with this.’” That could be anything new, vague or intense—a game of Tetris or a hike up a steep mountain, a confusing conversation or nerve-racking project.

In its nine years of existence, it’s said that the Civilian Conservation Corps planted between two and three billion trees, cleared thirteen thousand miles of hiking trails, built more than forty thousand bridges and three thousand fire towers, helped establish more than seven hundred new state parks, made improvements in ninety-four national parks or monument areas, and developed fifty-two thousand acres of public campgrounds.

It wasn't actually being on the trail that made me truly free. I don't want anyone to read this and believe that they have to hike the Appalachian Trail in order to find themselves. It also wasn't ending my marriage or leaving my career, though I do believe those things were a necessary part of my journey of change and rediscovery. The true key was the mindset I learned to adopt, one amplified by the trail. It was the ability to appreciate the current moment, the willingness to be in it, and taking it in at the speed the moment required.

In my midthirties, I realized that my parents would die soon. Not like a terminal illness. I just mean in the flow of time. It hit me hardest when my mother turned seventy. I did a quick bit of math. I go home to see her twice a year. The average American woman lives to be seventy-six. If that was how it went for her, I might see my mom only twelve more times. It is a quaking discovery to watch “Mom” becoming an old woman. Not that she looks like one. Or acts like one. Every day she seems to be on some new hike, at some new party, or laughing in a car packed with friends. But that number, seventy, has its connotations. The timeless force of nature, the mother, who exists outside of real human relationships, more an element than a person, will leave you.

Out of luck Even this bold idea failed to work. At first the batteries were too heavy for the trio to carry. Then when they brought the radio from the crash site to the tail, they found that the electrical systems were incompatible: the plane used AC, the batteries supplied DC. Sewing for survival It was now apparent that the only way out was to climb over the mountains to the west. They also realized that unless they found a way to survive the freezing nights, they would die attempting the journey. So the survivors came up with an ingenious solution. They tore out large sections of fabric from clothing, gathered padding from the plane’s upholstery and got to work with a needle and thread from an emergency pack. Eventually they created a passable sleeping bag. It would fit three men inside, but would carry the lives of all sixteen of the remaining survivors. Hiking with hope On 12 December 1972, Parrado, Canessa and Vizintín set out to climb the mountain to the west. It was two months since the crash. As they climbed over the first peak their bodies struggled in the thinning oxygen. It was savagely cold at night, but the homemade sleeping bag kept them alive. After three days of trekking they met with a major disappointment. Cresting the shoulder of the mountain they expected to see the green countryside of Chile. Instead there was a sea of snow-bound peaks stretching out to the horizon. They were deeper in the mountains than they thought. They had tens of kilometres of high altitude hiking still to go. After the initial rush of despair the men again found hope, and through that, a positive plan of action. They had further to go, so they must be stricter with their

Section hiking boasts little of the mystique of thruhiking and it's easy to see why. Unlike hiking the Trail straight through from end to end, it does not lend itself to the oldest and most dependable of story lines: the step-by-step journey of self-discovery, the errand into the wilderness, the unspooling thread of destiny. And yet, by the same token, if section hiking lacks a clearly defined beginning and middle, it never needs to end. (From Breakfast with Salamanders: Seasons on the Appalachian Trail.)

Priest: O God, be a companion for them along the path, a guide at crossroads, strength in their weariness, defense before dangers, shelter on the way, shade against heat, light in the darkness, a comforter in their discouragements and firmness in their intentions, in order that, through your guidance, they might arrive unscathed at the end of their journey, and enriched with graces and virtues, they might return safely to their homes, which will not lament their absence, filled with salutary and lasting joy. All: Amen.

Resolve told Misplaced, “I made up my mind before I came on this hike that every step would be painful. But there are some long, hard, beautiful miles between Here and There, and I wanted to see all of them. It’s that way with any journey like this. The only way to cover all those miles is to take one more step . . .  even if it hurts.

Making trail conversation, Misplaced asked Resolve how he broke his ankle. After Resolve shared the details and described the surgery, Misplaced couldn’t help but ask, “How does it feel to hike with that titanium plate?” Resolve’s answer struck Misplaced with its honesty and underlying truth. “It hurts, but I knew it would. I made up my mind before I came on this hike that every step would be painful. But there are some long, hard, beautiful miles between Here and There, and I wanted to see all of them. It’s that way with any journey like this, even if you’re not injured. The only way to cover all those miles is to take one more step . . .  even if it hurts.

I truly realised, standing with a cider in hand and the sun on my face, discussing the next long trail I’d hike, that there are no limits except those we place on ourselves.

Deb Waszak is a professional with a heart set on making a difference, originating from the North side of Chicago. As a dedicated medical assistant, Deb's journey is characterized by resilience and positivity, driven by a desire to contribute to the betterment of society. Outside her bustling career, she seeks solace in nature's embrace, often venturing on scenic hiking trails with an adventurous spirit.

That saying, ‘The Trail Provides’, was one I’d come across a few times while researching our trip. Used by hikers, and believed to have originated from the popular Pacific Crest Trail in the United States, it refers to moments of magic and serendipity that occur while on a long-distance journey. On more than one occasion we’d been longing for or in need of something and, somehow, it would manifest. Like craving honey for days and passing a rare hiker who just happens to gift you some. Or losing your hiking sticks down a hole and then for a group to coincidently see a post about it who also just happen to be passing the exact area so they can fetch them and bring them back to you a day later.

The aching, burning sensations in my leg reminded me of why I was there. I guess you could call it a mission. I was determined to heal myself.

For Those That Look at The Reasons Why You Cannot Do Something, Perhaps You Are Looking at it The Wrong Way. Consider Why You Must.

One Day This Pain Will Make Sense to You

When we find fault in others, it’s often because of the concerns we have about our own abilities.

You have to embrace the suck.

Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will. —Mahatma Gandhi

I can heal myself. I am healing each and every day. I can hike the entire Appalachian Trail.

I’ve found during my life that our thoughts can affect the way we respond to the world around us. Rather than just accepting the negative thoughts that pop into our minds, I think it makes more sense to choose the thoughts we want to hear.

Rock Bottom Became A SOLID Foundation on Which I Rebuilt My Life

If you think something is going to be difficult, then it will be. If you can get yourself to believe that you can do it, then anything’s possible.

I saw a falling star and made a wish that I might soon be home in my wife’s arms.

In most cases, you can’t or won’t get everything you want overnight, but you can choose the path you’re going to follow. And by choosing your own path, you can become who you’re meant to be, making your way through the long journey that we call life.

Giving up meant resigning myself to a life filled with pain. Pain that was likely to never get better.

I can confidently tell you that anything you or I really want to do can be accomplished if you just break it down into bite-sized pieces that you can handle each day.

Your best life is waiting for you right now; all you need to do is reach out and grab it.

And that’s one of the secrets when you’re hurt—don’t focus on what you can’t do. Focus on what you CAN do.

You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have. —Bob Marley

and Hiking: Madeira's stunning landscapes and network of hiking trails make walking and hiking popular activities for visitors. The island is crisscrossed with Levada walks, mountain trails, and coastal paths, offering opportunities to explore its natural beauty on foot. Guided hiking tours are available for those looking for expert guidance and insight into Madeira's flora, fauna, and geology. Cable Cars and Funiculars:  In certain areas of Madeira, such as Funchal and Monte, cable cars and funiculars provide scenic rides and convenient access to viewpoints, gardens, and other attractions. The Monte Cable Car, for example, takes passengers from Funchal to the hillside village of Monte, offering panoramic views of the city and harbor along the way.

Through travel, I have come to appreciate that there are two types of people in the world - those that have a passion to see it, and those who struggle to find a reason to even leave their neighbourhood. This book is exclusively for the former - the restless spirits who believe that the best stories are found off the beaten path and that the only baggage worth carrying is the kind that fits in the overhead compartment. The people who believe that life's journey is not complete without a suitcase full of memories (and maybe a few questionable food decisions).

She stepped to her clothing trunks, the grand traveling trunks that she had packed so hopefully in the days before she left Bingtown. They had been stuffed when she began her journey, full of sensible clothes fit for a lady adventurer. Stoutly woven cotton blouses with a minimum of lace, split skirts for hiking, hats with veils to ward off insects and sun, sturdy leather boots…little but memories remained of them now. The hardships of travel had softened the fabrics. Her boots scuffed and leaked, the ties now a series of knots. Laundering clothes in the acidic waters of the river had been her only choice, but seams had weakened and hems had frayed. She drew on a set of her worn clothes with no thought as to what they would look like. No one was going to look at her anyway. She was finished forever with worrying about what she looked like or what people thought of her.

Inside me, there was a little girl who begged to be free and face her fears. She had faced monsters her whole life. Many doubted her and didn't think she would amount to anything, but here she was now. That little Shilletha just needed to be loved, appreciated, and heard. That little girl needed me now, and we were going to summit this together. Each step represented a milestone in our lives-- going to Disney World, surviving sexual abuse, enduring grief at the loss of my aunt, graduating from high school and college, being homeless in Texas, and now hiking the Appalachian Trail. Together, we could conquer anything. We'd been climbing mountains for twenty-eight years. We didn't know it then, but we knew it now.

Treks such as these, across featureless, barren deserts, were written away in a sentence, two at most. “They hiked far, and then they arrived.” If only, he thought, he could author such an easy, fast journey for himself and the men under his command.

Perhaps the itinerant monks called ‘Gyrovagues’ were especially responsible for promoting this view of our condition as eternal strangers. They journeyed ceaselessly from monastery to monastery, without fixed abode, and they haven’t quite disappeared, even today: it seems there are still a handful tramping Mount Athos. They walk for their entire lives on narrow mountain paths, back and forth on a long repeated round, sleeping at nightfall wherever their feet have taken them; they spend their lives murmuring prayers on foot, walk all day without destination or goal, this way or that, taking branching paths at random, turning, returning, without going anywhere, illustrating through endless wandering their condition as permanent strangers in this profane world.

Innovation journey is like taking a hiking trip at the trail very few or even no people ever went before, it takes courage and emotional maturity.

Funny enough, it’s the smallest things that weren’t that exciting or worthy of recounting to other people; even though at the time they seemed like the most important and joyous things in the world to me and those hiking with me. Even in memory-they’re still important, and it is times such as those that I realized what the whole journey was about. Living in the moment, camaraderie with your fellow man, and breaking into song when the moment feels right. The smallest things have the biggest impacts on us, and no one else in the world will understand them as profoundly as we did at those moments.

This visual of two different worlds and planes of existence converging on a mountain top was actually quite amazing and eye opening to witness. The “haves” and the “have nots.”  It gave me a new perspective. More perspective than I feel I’d gained on the journey so far. People simply don’t know how good they have it, even when things seem terrible or difficult. Although I’d chosen to do this hike and live this way temporarily, I understood there were people out there who lived like this permanently, without any choice, while in much worse conditions and circumstances. Any Dick and Jane can say, “Yeah, I know there are people out there who live like that, and I understand and feel sorry for them.” I’m sure some people reading this are thinking that same thing. I’ll tell you right now, I’ve been to third world countries and you can see it, sympathize with it, and think you understand it; but in reality, you may not. Not until you’ve experienced and lived it for yourself. I thought I understood it simply by seeing it, but it wasn’t until I’d lived parts of that “have not” experience, that I realized just how much I didn’t understand it. Defecating outside and maybe not having toilet paper. Sleeping outside, not having running water or hot water, not having showers, and being miles from the nearest help. Not having whatever you want to eat every day or possibly running out of food, or not finding water. Not having electricity, not having climate control, and having your feet as your only means of transportation. Dealing with any and all elements whenever they should arise, as well as having limited hygiene products and smelling terrible every day. This only scratches the surface. I won’t pretend to know exactly what it’s like for people who are stuck in this lifestyle permanently, but in making this journey I certainly gained a much better understanding. I knew that even though it was the life I’d chosen to live at that time, I still had it better than probably half the people on the planet. I could get a reprieve (for a price) anytime I went into town. I could end any suffering, discomfort, and pain I experienced on any day I chose... but I didn’t.  I was enjoying the experience and perspective I was gaining on an almost daily basis. The time for personal reflection and the thousands of moments I had each day that belonged to me and only me was intoxicating. The whole experience was surreal, yet at the same time more real than anything in the modern world. Everything around you out there “is what it is” and isn’t trying to be anything else. It’s simple and honest, which is more than can be said for the “modern” world, where many things are never as they seem, and most everybody wants something from you. 

There was no defining moment, no end result, and no sudden enlightenment. I had waited for it in vain when I should have been living in the moment, enjoying a journey

the destination holds little significance, it’s the journey that matters.

Walking the entire Appalachian Trail is not recreation. It is an education and a job. • Walking the entire Appalachian Trail is not “going on a hike.” It is a challenging task—a journey with deeper ramifications. Are you willing to accept them and learn from

There was no defining moment, no end result, and no sudden enlightenment. I had waited for it in vain when I should have been living in the moment, enjoying a journey, my journey, my time on this planet.

It is hardly surprising that the initial stage of most mountain journeys involves laborious uphill hiking. Coming at a time when the typical hiker is out of shape, unacclimated, and transporting the heaviest load of the entire trip, the seemingly endless hillsides can elicit rumblings from even the hardiest backpackers. The first section of the High Route qualifies as a splendid example of such unremitting travel, for the hiker must toil up 6,000 feet to the first major pass, a disheartening prospect. Weathered dead pine at timberline Optimistic hikers who seek the brighter side of unpleasant situations, however, will quickly discover mitigating factors on this interminable slope. The well-manicured trail zigzags up the north wall of Kings Canyon with such a gentle gradient that the traveler can slip into a rhythmic pace where the miles pass far more quickly than would be possible on a steeper, rockier path. Thus freed from scrutinizing the terrain immediately ahead, the hiker can better appreciate the two striking formations on the opposite side of the canyon. Directly across the way towers the enormous facade of Grand Sentinel, rising 3,500 feet above the meadows lining the valley floor. Several miles to the east lies the sculpted oddity known as the Sphinx, a delicate pinnacle capping a sweeping apron of granite. These two landmarks, visible for much of the ascent to the Monarch Divide, offer travelers a convenient means of gauging their progress; for instance, when one is finally level with the top of the Sphinx, the upward journey is two-thirds complete. Hikers able to identify common Sierra trees

My relationship with thru-hiking has typically been love in hindsight rather than love at first sight.

Place lag doesn’t require the crossing of a time zone. It doesn’t even require an airplane. Sometimes I’ve been in a forest, for a hike or a picnic, and then later the same day I have returned to a city. Surrounded by cars and noise and blocks of concrete and glass, I’ll find myself asking, how is it that I was walking in the woods this morning? I know it was only this morning I was in that different place; but already it feels like a week ago. We

Walking the AT is not recreation,” he began. “It is an education and a job. And walking the entire AT is not ‘going on a hike,’ but a journey with deeper ramifications.

Maybe the path went in a circle. Maybe there was a more gradual, friendly slope back up the mountain so he wouldn't have to double back. He could keep moving forward but still end up home.

On reflection, my being prepared for diagnosis looked like this. I knew I was going on a journey, not quite sure where, I’d just been told to pack an overnight bag. So, I’d loaded my bag with PJs, a sundress, towel, beachwear, flip-flops and sunscreen. My journey turned out to be a hiking one! I needed a rucksack, walking boots, crampons and a warm jacket. I wasn’t even nearly fit for purpose. Fortunately, I had the right people join me in that journey. They gave me a jacket, warm socks, hat and gloves, refreshments and passed me the goggles and blister cream for when it got tough. I am grateful to those who have supported me.

As we hiked deep into the forest, I swallowed down anger as my clients—mostly older and wealthy, often conservative—weighed in on the health-care debates, usually on the side of politicians whose plans would have left me without care for the foreseeable

Seek out adventures, not just to reach one goal or another, but for the journey itself and the lessons each experience teaches you.... Climbing mountains or backpacking in the wilderness inevitably changes you. The person you were at the onset is not who you become when the journey is finished. That is why I am always looking for the next adventure.

When we find fault in others, it’s often because of the concerns we have about our own abilities.

Away deep in the aim to study himself in the school of the land his ancestors' gravestones flowered, Rip planned to burn his oil on the journey for growth by the hike, the thumb, the hitch, the rod, the freight, the rail, and he x'd New York on a map and pencilled his way to and into and through and under and up and between and over and across states and capitals and counties and cities and towns and villages and valleys and plains and plateaus and prairies and mountains and hills and rivers and roadways and railways and waterways and deserts and islands and reservations and titanic parks and shores and, ocean across to ocean and great lakes down to gulfs, Rip beheld the west and the east and the north and the south of the Brobdingnagian and, God and Christ and Man, it was a pretty damn good grand big fat rash crass cold hot pure mighty lovely ugly hushed dark lonely loud lusty bitchy tender crazy cruel gentle raw sore dear deep history-proud precious place to see, and he sure would, he thought, make the try to see it and smell it and walk and ride and stop and talk and listen in it and go on in it and try to find and feel and hold and know the beliefs in it and the temper and the talents in it and the omens and joys and hopes and frights and lies and laughs and truths and griefs and glows and gifts and glories and glooms and wastes and profits and the pulse and pitch and the music and the magic and the dreams and facts and the action and the score and the scope and span of the mind and the heart and spine and logic and ego and spirit in the soul and the goal of it.

Last year, for my first year in “retirement,” I hiked one of the world’s oldest roads: The Way of St. James of Compostela, from Paris to Galicia. Two thousand three hundred kilometers (1,430 miles) on foot, pack on my back like a donkey.

A few weeks after my injury, when I was in the rehab center, I found someone willing to travel to the center to give me a massage. Partway through, she suggested trying something called Reiki. This is where instead of touching you, the masseuse waves their hands through the air over you to “adjust your energy fields.” You can probably tell by the way that I describe this that I think this is a bunch of BS. Does it work for some people? Of course it does. The placebo effect can work with any type of treatment or medication by providing someone with an improvement if and when they expect to get one. The nice doctor in the white lab coat gives you some pills and says, “Take two of these each morning, and your pain should feel much better.” The medication that the doctor gives you could be nothing more than sugar pills. Still, if you really believe that you’ll benefit from it, your brain finds a way to make at least some improvement come true. In double-blind studies, it’s been proven that the placebo effect can provide as much as a 32 percent improvement. Because of this, for new drugs to be approved in the US, they need to test at a level that’s higher than the 32 percent placebo level of improvement. So, if I’d believed in Reiki, then I may have experienced some benefit from it, but I don’t, so I didn’t get anything out of the treatment. That said, I think it’s interesting that when dealing with chronic pain, the temptation is to try almost anything, no matter how crazy it sounds. The hope is that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to get some relief from your ongoing pain.

As crazy as all of this may sound to you, I know that our brains are able to control so many things depending on how we think about something. About twenty years ago, a business partner and I taught real estate investing seminars. One of the most significant factors that affects someone’s success in real estate, or any other endeavor, is belief. I’ve heard it said that if you believe you can or if you believe you can’t, either way, you’re right. Suppose you really honestly believe that you’ll succeed in real estate or any other endeavor. In that case, you’re about 1,000 times more likely to put in the effort and stick with it. If you don’t believe you’re going to succeed, then most people put in next to no effort to basically prove themselves right when nothing happens. At our seminars, we would demonstrate this by teaching the concept of “Spots.” We explained that according to an ancient methodology, we all have a weak spot and a strong spot. Speaking in a strong, confident voice, we’d say, “Here’s your strong spot right here,” and demonstrate this by touching the center of our forehead. “You also have a weak spot” (speaking in a softer, weaker voice). “It’s located in the soft fleshly spot right here behind your ear.” We again demonstrated and encouraged them to follow along. Then to give it a little emphasis, we added, “Careful, don’t push it too much, or you’ll get really weak!” Then we said, “We’ll show you how this actually works,” and invited one of the stronger-looking participants up onto the stage. We’d touch the person in their “strong” spot and ask them to hold their arm straight out to the side. “Now I’m going to push down on your arm, and I want you to resist me as much as you can.” We’d push down with a decent amount of effort, and our client’s arm would not budge down at all. “Now I’m going to touch your weak spot” (touching the person behind their ear). “And watch as I’m now able to push their arm completely down.” The crazy thing is that no matter how hard the subject tries to hold their arm up, after touching their “weak” spot, it drops right down with much less effort than during the first attempt. Then we said, “Now I want you to prove this to yourself. Pair up with the person next to you to test this out for yourself.” The room would buzz with the sounds of people talking as they discovered that the strong and weak spots really did, for the most part, work. Then we would switch the spots. “Isn’t it crazy that just because we told you to push on the strong spot behind your ear, that made you really strong? And when we told you to push on the weak spot in the middle of your forehead, that made you really weak?” we’d say. “No, no, you’ve got them backward!” the crowd would shout at us. At which point, we’d demonstrate that the spots worked just as well if you switched them, finally telling them, “We actually made all this up—but it works anyway!” What you tell yourself and what you believe really does make a difference. I don’t know if this helps to explain why I was hiking the Appalachian Trail. I was passionately committed to the belief that if I hiked the entire Appalachian Trail, then my foot and leg were going to have to be better. Each day that I hiked, with every mile further north that I went, heck, with every single step I took, I was reclaiming my life. I know that anything is possible. My adventure on the trail proved this to me each and every day. 14 May—Finding a Buddy You Can’t Avoid Pain, But You Can Choose to Overcome it. —Paulo Coelho Two and a half hours after leaving Shenandoah National Park, I arrived home.