The Appalachian Trail

“The Appalachian Trail had always been a whisper in the back of her mind, a dream she tucked away for a “later” that never seemed to arrive. Then, life threw her a curveball - a sudden, unexpected break-up that left her feeling lost and adrift. Suddenly, the idea of hiking the Trail wasn’t just a dream, it was a lifeline. If she was going to be homeless, she might as well be homeless surrounded by beauty of the mountains. It was a chance to escape the wreckage of her relationship, to find herself again in the vastness of the wilderness. But more importantly, it was a chance to finally say “yes” to herself, to embrace a challenge she had always craved, and to reclaim her own voice after years of putting her own desires on hold.”.

Background

________

I grew up in a northeastern corner of Pennsylvania known as the Poconos…otherwise known as a weekend tourist trap for folks from New York and New Jersey. My parents were relatively outdoorsy, so my two younger brothers and I grew up hiking around the area, especially a stretch of the Appalachian Trail that bordered New Jersey and Pennsylvania. This is definitely where my love for the outdoors began!

Later on, I went to college for graphic design and landed a promising job in that field immediately following graduation. All of this was great! But then I noticed I was descending back into an episode of clinical depression which had been mostly dormant for a few years. It wasn’t a depression born out of sadness or anything particularly challenging - it was a depression that sprung from lethargy and disappointment. 

I had pushed so hard during high school and college, obsessed with perfect grades and a good job and a little apartment all to myself…because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do…right? Not that trying to achieve financial stability was a bad idea but trying to achieve these goals at the expense of all else - including my happiness, gratitude, and ability to enjoy the journey - was an issue.

This theme of knowing when to push for my goals and when to relax into the process will be a huge and recurring theme during my Appalachian Trail hike. 

Oh, and by the way, I did eventually recover from that bout with depression. It’s a bit of a long story, and you can read about it here, https://substack.com/home/post/p-146404869 but suffice to say, I discovered the enormity of death work and death doulaship. In studying how we die, I learned how I could Live. 

In 2022 you hiked 900 miles on the Appalachian Trail, prior to this, can you tell us what motivated you to take on such a challenge? 

________

Oh man, buckle up for story time - this is going to be a real damn long answer to a straightforward question!

For years, I’d wanted to hike the entire Trail, but once I graduated college and got fully inundated in “adult life,” including that full-time, successful “grownup” job I mentioned earlier, I figured that dream would forever be placed on the back burner. But then, in April of 2022, my (now-ex) boyfriend, with whom I lived and who I’d been dating for five years, asked for “a break.”

This came out of the blue and the shock of it knocked me on my ass. We agreed he could stay in our apartment during our “break” since his job was nearby. I, on the other hand, was working remotely and was untethered to a physical location. Without any assurance that our relationship would resume, I found myself abruptly homeless. 

I spent my nights crashing on various friends’ couches and at my brothers’ apartments. I spent my days working in the office, venting about my situation to my boss in between pumping out work as though my life hadn’t just shattered around me. My boss even took pity on me and allowed me to spend a few nights sleeping on the office floor when  I couldn’t secure couch space elsewhere.

While I was adrift, I realized, “hey, this might be a good time to do that Trail hike you’ve always wanted to do.” I figured if I was going to be homeless, I may as well be homeless among woods and mountains, in a place I actually enjoyed. The challenge of the Trail had intrigued me for years. At the idea of embracing such a challenge, a tiny flame of life and enthusiasm rekindled amidst the rubble of my crappy circumstances. I also thought that hiking the Trail would be a good place to sort out my thoughts on my fucked and failing relationship. 

While all of these things were true, I think most of all, this hike was a chance to finally say “yes” to myself, to do something I desperately wanted, rather than constantly shelving my wants, dreams, and my own voice in favor of someone else’s.

How did you prepare and plan for your hike to the Appalachian Trail? 

________

Normally, people take years to plan a thru-hike. I was mapping out a long section hike - we call ‘em “Long Ass Section Hikes”, or “LASH” for short - and people still tend to take several months to a year to organize the logistics. I planned mine in about three weeks. 

I knew I wanted to hike the northern half: about 1,100 miles, from Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia to Mt. Katahdin in Maine, the Trail’s northern terminus. I wanted to see the White Mountains in New Hampshire, a stunning mountain range that had been languishing away on my bucket list for years. I already had some gear from a week-long section hike on the Trail through Massachusetts five years prior. But most of that gear was too heavy, so I hastily researched a decently affordable gear setup (read: mostly REI brand!) that was a compromise on weight and on the dollars I didn’t have. 

For food, my parents kept a stash of dehydrated hiking meals that had accumulated from our previous family hiking forays, so I asked my mom to mail a few of those ahead to me. The plan was for me to pick them up in post offices through Maryland and Pennsylvania until I exhausted their meal supply and would have to get the remainder of my food from the Trail towns I would hike through. 

There was the little problem of my job, but my boss had coincidentally just hired an additional team member who would be able to handle most of my share of the work while I was away. He graciously allowed me to leave for three months for my hike, assuring me I’d have a job when I returned. I didn’t want to push my luck and insist on the six months I’d need for a full thru hike, which solidified my plans to hike the northern half of the Trail, something I could feasibly accomplish within the three-month window of freedom.

In a last-ditch attempt to prepare my body for the physical test that was to come, I boarded a flight to Death Valley.

Ironically, this trip had been planned months ago. I had planned a long weekend in the desert to avoid the fact that my boyfriend was - once again - refusing to bring me to his family’s Easter celebration. Their deeply racist tendencies against me and my Chinese heritage (a forever puzzling fact, as I was raised entirely in the States by white parents and have not a drop of Chinese culture in me…) plagued my relationship and caused my boyfriend to avoid taking me to most family functions…even five years in. (Pffft…thank you, next.)

On this trip, I spent exactly one night sleeping in my newly purchased, lightweight tent and gear, half-heartedly giving it a one-night evaluation before it would become my sole means of sleeping in the woods. To see if my legs were up for the task of hiking all day every day, I hiked up a single 9,000ft peak in the Panamint Range…a poor litmus test! On the way down, I felt a twinge in my right knee - an echo of poor decision-making and an overweight pack on my Massachusetts section hike - but figured my knee would shape up by the time I got on Trail. 

I waffled back and forth with indecision the entire time I was in Death Valley. Like a swinging pendulum, I vaulted from the exuberant, “Oh my god, I need to go on this hike. What an adventure! What an incredible opportunity! I can’t take this for granted! I get to hike in the woods! On the Trail!” to the despairing, panicky, “Am I crazy? I can’t possibly go on this hike! I’m not in shape for this! I didn’t train enough! I’ll miss work! What if they need me? I’m too scared to do this! What if my boyfriend wants me back?!”

And speak of the devil - the week I was set to leave, my boyfriend reached out and said he wanted to “cancel” the break, and get us “back to how it used to be.” Lookie-loo, he wants me back after all. All of my doubt amplified tenfold and the inner debate of “should I stay? Should I go?” amped up to another level. A traitor part of me was terrified that if I left, he might not wait around for me to return from the hike. That same traitor wanted to return home to him in our little Maryland apartment, pretend he hadn’t done everything he had done, and cancel all plans for my hike. 

But I didn’t. 

With a trembling voice, I told him I was going through with it, and we could begin the enormous task of repairing our relationship once I returned. I had committed. I was leaving. Everyone knew I was going on this hike. My boss had graciously given me three whole months off to do this. I couldn’t bail now. And I didn’t want to bail. I wanted to see through what I’d started. Despite crippling fear, anxiety, and second-guessing, I did it anyway. 

it was the best decision I’ve ever made.

Can you describe for us what the environment is like on the Appalachian Trail, and did you feel as though you had prepared well enough for the hike? 

________

First, the easy question: did I prepare well enough? NOPE! My right knee, the one that was injured from my previous Massachusetts hike, gave out on the first day. I was in searing pain the night I limped into my first hostel. It turned out that even though the pain in the knee had been dormant for five years, it had no trouble announcing its presence after I stupidly tried to jump straight into a ten-mile first day with a heavy pack. What I should have done to prepare was spend hours on my feet each day wearing my heavy pack, taking training hikes in my neighbourhood.

But my circumstances didn’t allow for that level of prep. I also didn’t have the emotional capacity to think that far ahead when I was too busy with tasks like figuring out where I’d be sleeping each night. And so, I didn’t adequately prepare my knee. I failed to strengthen it and the surrounding muscles so they might bear the load I was about to demand of it.

I thought I was so, so fucked that first day. But I’ll go into more detail on that later.

To answer your other question, the environment on the Trail was gorgeous. They call it “the green tunnel,” for a reason: tons of tree cover, lush grass, dense foliage….though it was nice to pop out once in a while to see scenic overlooks. The terrain changed as I moved further north, transitioning from dense oaks and thick brush to scrubby pine trees and fairy-like moss patches: all signature to the alpine forests in New Hampshire and Maine.

The emotional environment was just as awesome. The Trail is its own little microculture. The majority of folks are on Trail to deal with a life transition like me: I met a woman whose husband had recently died. I met another woman who was about to proceed with a divorce. I met a guy who was hiking the Trail right after graduating high school and before going to trade school. Other folks are hiking the Trail in search of meaning. Still others are on Trail for adventure and a challenge. The variety of people’s reasons are as diverse and colorful as the people themselves.

Mostly everyone is friendly and kind. I could smile and wave and receive a smile and wave back…quite a difference from the angry, rushed folks in Baltimore. (Or just off-Trail in general) At the shelters, people were supportive and helpful, quick to dispense advice and wisdom when asked. They would even offer supplies if needed: there were plenty of times I saw hikers passing out bandaids or blister tape, or even water. At my first hostel, an ex-Marine medic showed me how to carefully wrap my knee with special KT Tape - and then he gave me the entire roll of the expensive tape.

Overall, the environment was a healthy place, vibrant and supportive and kind. It’s entirely different from the “real world,” where social niceties reign supreme. People on Trail are direct and straightforward, but somehow, they manage to be incredibly wholesome human beings. I try to emulate that Trail culture as much as I can, but it’s admittedly more difficult.

For those who are unfamiliar with the trail: Are there any supply spots along the way? Specifically, are there places to sleep, access to food supplies, or bathrooms? Or is it a remote area where you are completely cut off from the rest of the world?

________

Oh, yeah, the Trail is great with resupply options. It’s kind of rare when you’re in true backcountry, despite what all the tutting doomsayers might think: “you’ll die! What about bears? What about food?!” 

You don’t get lost because there are big, white blazes painted every hundred feet on the trees. These blazes mark the way from Georgia all the way to Maine. As far as resupplying, you come to a road crossing, often multiple crossings, at least once a day. Sometimes, the Trail walks directly through town; like, literally down the asphalt streets. You have ample time to get groceries, use a real bathroom, and all that. I ended up stopping on average once a week to restock on food, take a shower, and sleep in a bed. 

For bathrooms and places to sleep, there are shelters every few (I’d say 10ish) miles on Trail. The shelters are three-sided lean-to’s and there are privies to use as well. They’re certainly not as great as real bathrooms, but it damn well beats shitting in a hole in the woods. (Believe me, I had to do that several times when I failed to reach a privy, and it was NOT fun.)

In addition to stopping in town once a week or so for groceries, I’d also stop and book a night at a hotel. It’s hard to convey how precious the hot, running water of a shower becomes when you’re deprived of it for week-long chunks. Showering and enjoying those off-trail comforts became a luxurious novelty that I try not to take for granted.

In total, how long did it take you to hike the entire 900 miles and on average, how many miles did you manage to cover a day. 

________

It took exactly three months and three days. That’s a pretty straightforward answer. But the answer to how many miles I covered per day is….roundabout.

Right after my knee freaked out in the beginning, I forced myself to stick to a ridiculously cautious 7 miles per day. I was trying to get my body and my bad knee used to walking; exposure therapy! But once I got out of Maryland and partly into Pennsylvania, I kicked the pace up to around 13 miles a day.

At one point, my fastest, I was barrelling through New York, Connecticut, and Massachusetts at 16-20 miles a day. It was honestly too much. I know the experienced thru-hikers can do that easily, but whether it was because I didn’t have over a thousand miles under my feet by the time I hit New York, or because travelling so fast is simply not for me, I hated it. I hated that pace so much it caused a mental breakdown halfway through Vermont.

Eventually, I dialed the pace down to about 10-13 miles through the remnants of Vermont. Through the notoriously harsh White Mountains in New Hampshire, I dropped down to no more than 10 miles per day. But I’ve never regretted the choice to take it slow through the Whites. Even as other hikers sped past, I savored the hell out of those slower-mile days.

Can you share with us what your overall experience was hiking those 900 miles on the Appalachian Trail.

________

So remember how I said my knee gave out on the first day? Yeah, I’d say that was a pretty substantial and unexpected challenge!

I was stuck in a hostel in Maryland for three days, hoping it would recover. But each morning was the same: pain whenever I put weight on my right leg. Each day, I watched hikers come and go and desperately wanted to hike out with them. A caretaker at the hostel showed me some deep stretches and yoga poses to try to encourage the knee to relax. I tried walking more to see if that would help. I tried sitting around and doing nothing. I tried lessening the already low-ish weight of my pack by sending back clothes I didn’t need and ripping up and disposing of the pages in my paper guidebook describing the southern half of the Trail.

Bottom line: I tried a LOT of stuff. But nothing was working.

I eventually found a masseuse listed in the guidebook, so in a ditch effort, I called her up and arranged for her to come to the hostel to take a look at my knee.

She was able to confirm that there was at least not an injury in the knee. Instead, she stuck her fingers deep into my quad and discovered a tight, immensely painful ball of constricted muscle: a tightness that formed five years ago on my Massachusetts hike that had become re-inflamed from overuse.

Just knowing that I hadn’t torn anything important was a relief. As she massaged the leg and worked the ball loose (it was NOT a feel-good massage, ya’ll), I felt a noticeable difference when I stood up from her table. The pain had reduced. I was dizzy with relief. I asked her to come back and work on me the next morning, and she agreed. She even offered to follow me a few days later to my next stop and work on the leg again.

I committed to hiking out two days later. The medic who happened to be a caretaker for the hostel showed me how to wrap my knee - making a significant difference. He was heading up to caretake for a hostel in Maine soon.

I still remember his words: “Take it slow. Take it easy. But you’ll be okay. And I’ll see you in Maine.”

I never made it to his hostel, located about a hundred miles beyond my finishing point. But I do hope someone told him about the gimpy girl in Maryland who did in fact, make it to Maine.

The time spent hiking through the rest of Maryland and into southern Pennsylvania was almost pure bliss. Sure, unfavorable things happened, like getting caught in a rain a few times and dealing with humidity and mosquito hoards, but overall, I was ecstatic to be able to hike again. I could feel myself growing stronger as I was slowly able to increase my daily mileage. 

I loved hiking alone, the unfettered freedom of calling my own shots. Want to change the plan and stay at this nifty hostel? Sure! Gotta hop off-Trail and pee for the fifth time in an hour? Do it! See a gorgeous lunch spot? Stop and have a hiker picnic!

Along the way, I met a plethora of cool thru-hikers, hiking around them for a few days before they’d inevitably push up their pace and leave me in the dust. I didn’t mind. I was happy on my own, content in my aloneness in a way I had not expected.

And then I hiked into the town of Boiling Springs, Pennsylvania, where I began to form the first connections in my Trail family (or, “tramily”). We traveled together from Pennsylvania through New York, growing to ten at our largest as we picked up more and more awesome new friends.

New York is around the time I was growing cocky. My knee hadn’t acted up once since that first day, and I was eager to begin pushing bigger mile days. I wanted to see how fast I could go. I had been surrounded and passed by speedy, strong thru-hikers, and I was eager to see if I too could sustain their inhuman paces: they would casually say that they did a 20+ mile day, sometimes 30 if they hiked into the night.

Another issue became readily apparent: I was beginning to struggle with the logistics of traveling with a 10-person tramily. I loved them dearly and still keep in touch with several of them to this day. But the challenge of coordinating town stops, resupplies, shelter stops, and zero days with so many people was beginning to grate on me. That, coupled with my desire to fly through the terrain which was now feeling effortless, eventually influenced the somewhat organic splitting of our tramily into smaller groups. The three friends in my group were also looking to speed up, and so we pushed the pedal down through the remainder of New York.

We wanted to summit Katahdin before one of them had to return to college for the start of her semester. By that point there were only two others with me, and we had become attached to each other - ours was a deep friendship forged through shared mishaps, challenges, and the profound camaraderie of our experience on Trail.

We planned to summit Katahdin the same day, but to do it, we’d have to speed up significantly. This is where we started pulling 14-20 mile days. It worked for a while, but we hit a wall in Vermont, when the mountains grew steeper and more wild; no longer were they the rolling, short hills of New Jersey or Connecticut or even Massachusetts. Instead, they were steep and unforgiving, covered in mud and slick roots and unmaintained brush that smacked you in the face and arms with prickly branches. Despite making steady progress, each day, Katahdin felt further and further away.

To make matters worse, as my discomfort on Trail grew, the lure of the comfort of home became like a siren song. I felt the tug of my partner, the feeling of that old comfort blanket. I missed the luxuries that we all take for granted: long showers and water in a glass and air conditioning. And as we travelled deeper into summer, humidity and temperatures soared.

We hiked through drenching rainstorms. We hiked through clouds of horrible, huge flies and mosquitoes that refused to be killed or deterred by bug spray. I began fantasizing for days on end about going home. Because of all this, I had a complete breakdown about halfway through Vermont. I had never been so close to calling it quits than I was at that point.

One of my friends was physically deteriorating even as I was mentally deteriorating. And so, after a reckoning that involved a lot of crying on my part and feeling a hair's breadth away from quitting, my friend’s parents whisked all three of us away on a forced zero break to Burlington. After that, we agreed we could no longer make it to Katahdin before her cutoff date because we could no longer continue at our breakneck speed.

Once we made that decision, things got better. My friend unfortunately ended up leaving Trail for reasons that are her own. This left me and one more member of the original tramily. Together, he and I traversed the White Mountains in New Hampshire. They were the most profound and beautiful days of my entire hike.

The alpine landscape was beyond stunning. I’d never seen anything like it. Each day was like walking through a painting, treated for miles and miles of breathtaking scenery. And what’s more, we were only travelling around 10 miles a day, so we were able to take it in and enjoy, rather than constantly pushing to fit in the daily mileage. But the White Mountains are fierce; they were so steep and rigorous we simply couldn’t go faster unless we really wanted to hurt ourselves. Each night, our knees ached from the relentless pounding up and over sheer boulders and down unthinkably steep rock faces.

But I never again was brought low like I was in Vermont. Instead, I was somehow deliriously happy. I didn’t want the hike to end, despite wanting it to be over just weeks before. In the Whites, I discovered what it felt like to Live, and to actually SAVOR that living, rather than just existing through my days. I discovered that there could be balance between relaxing into a moment, savoring its beauty, while still moving purposefully towards my next goal.

New Hampshire was for me, the pinnacle of my entire adventure. Everything I’d learned and had to be taught (through various amounts of the Trail humbling and kicking my ass) seemed to culminate in the awe of the White Mountains. I had tried rushing. I had tried relentlessly pushing. (All things I had tried, by the way, off-Trail, exhausting myself along the way) None of it had worked. None had brought about such immense satisfaction and gratitude for merely existing. But in slowing down and taking my time, I was able to finally receive the abundant beauty that I had once been too blind (and too distracted) to see. 

When I say that hike was the best experience of my life, I am certainly referring to all of it - all 900 exhausting, painful, wonderful miles. And I am especially thinking of the White Mountains, with all its pines, moss-covered boulders, torturously steep scrambles, and night skies ablaze with stars. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect conclusion.

How did being on this hike alter the trajectory of your life? Can you share the ‘how’ with us? 

________

The most obvious thing that has changed as a direct result of my hike is my move from Baltimore to Salt Lake City, Utah. As my time on Trail neared its end, I felt a creeping sense of dread. I would stare out at the mountain vistas in New Hampshire and southern Maine and think, “I’m about to say goodbye to this view forever. I’m about to return to the concrete jungle of the city and never see this again except on the occasional vacations and day trips.” 

And I did return to Baltimore; the transition away from those mountains and back into society was tough. They have a whole phrase for it: post-Trail depression. I didn’t move to Utah right away, remaining in Baltimore for eight more months. But the desire to see mountains like those on Trail wouldn’t leave.

I had to focus on dealing with my relationship first, though. That was not going well. In short, my boyfriend revealed his true colors, (more on that in a moment!) acting strange and possessive upon my return and urging me to forget what he did. I was supposed to simply move on, to firmly re-commit to him. He showered me with promises. He showered me with all the little gestures I used to beg for but never received: letters and overly-sweet texts and long speeches promising marriage - a topic he never, ever wanted to breach in all our years together.

At the time, I wasn’t sure if he truly was acting out of sorts, or if I was just extra sensitive towards anything perceived as “control” or “clingy” after living totally according to my own rules while on Trail. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t working, and so after a fruitless month of this, I initiated a short “break” of my own. 

I had recently returned from a weekend hiking trip in the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York, a remote spread of wilderness without cell signal. The tangible relief of not having to deal with his overbearing messages while I was away was yet another sign that I was very much done with the relationship.

What’s more, on that Adirondack trip, I listened to several friends as they mused over different places they wanted to move. In short, they were about to begin their lives over somewhere new and fresh. I felt a magnetic pull to those conversations because deep down, I was envious. I wanted to do that too. I wanted to, for once, choose somewhere that felt aligned for me, rather than being dragged to wherever my boyfriends’ job demanded. I wanted to call my own shots.

And so, for all these reasons - along with the fact that my boyfriend was refusing to respect my terms of “a break” - I officially broke up with him soon after I returned from the Adirondacks.

I don’t think I would have the guts to do this before my hike. I was convinced he was my safety blanket, and I was nothing without him. He had done a very good job of convincing me of this. But in choosing to embark on that hike and actively say “no” to him, and in doing all the hard things I did while on Trail, I realized I was no longer able to tolerate his behavior.

Instead of simply being bitter about it, the Trail showed me that I had the power within myself to take action and end the relationship, instead of nagging him to change and hoping things would improve, which was my default in the past. The Trail taught me that I had the power to live my life by my own terms - not the terms someone else set out for me.

Going on that hike - leaving alone but meeting people along the way - showed me that I could do things that scared me shitlesss. I was so petrified to leave home, even though I’d already lost home, and even though that home was a comfort zone in a city that I hated, where I was living a complacent life, repressing what I actually wanted.

When I broke up with him, I was now free to go anywhere I liked. Moving to Baltimore had been his choice; we had moved there together for his job. I did not pick that city and I never would have. But when we broke up, I started thinking about long-buried dreams I’d had as a teenager: moving out west to the mountains in Colorado. Later, after some research and a wise word from a friend, I decided on Utah, as the cost of living was cheaper and I could still get the same mountain scenery, rather than the drab red desert I thought Utah was known for.

I entertained the idea. Could I really move across the country? Could I really wake up each day, surrounded by mountains the way I was in the Appalachians? I floated the idea to my family. Then to my boss. I received a general amount of disbelief mixed with positive encouragement. I still worked remotely, and so, my boss reasoned, as long as I was somewhere with an Internet connection, he didn’t care where I moved.

And so, I pulled the plug and did it. I stayed in Baltimore for several months to weigh my decision and try to ensure I wasn’t doing this as a way to run away, but because I truly wanted to. Nothing in my intuition told me I was making a poor choice. So a few months later, I signed a lease, sight unseen, for a tiny apartment in Utah.
Shortly after that, I began a beautiful relationship with my friend from Trail, whom I met totally by chance while hiking through New Jersey. He was one of the friends in my tramily with whom I’d traveled the length of the Mid-Atlantic and New England mountains. 

I thought with the ending of my relationship that I’d be alone. And after all the drama plaguing that relationship - not to mention, the straight-up abusive, stalker shit he did in the weeks before I left him and Baltimore behind for good - I was perfectly content to be alone for a while.

But in the end, I discovered a love more supportive, healthy, and vibrant than anything I dared dream existed. We have similar desires for our life. We share a compatible lifestyle. And a big one that still blows my mind: we can celebrate our differences and focus on what brings us together - a concept that was absolutely impossible in my previous relationship.

I never would have found any of these things - a newfound love, a home nestled in the vast Utah mountains, the slow creation of a life I adore - if not for the Trail and that damn hike. I sometimes look around in awe and wonder how this could possibly be real. I shudder when I think of just how close I came to not pursuing that hike, or even to quitting while in Vermont.  I would have missed out on so much.

I can look back now and see two clear, divergent paths: one was to continue down the path I was going: living a complacent, suppressed life, living for dreams that were not my own. The other was to take enormous and terrifying chances, but the result was more than I could have ever hoped for. Some folks come to the Trail for a taste of adventure. They then return and go about their lives. That’s totally okay! But for me, I was one of the lucky ones. The Trail was an adventure, but it was so much more. It profoundly and permanently changed my life.

Besides the previously mentioned racist tendencies of his parents that he did nothing to stop - and in fact, gaslit me into believing I was insane for being so hurt by this behavior - and his constant need to be right all the time, putting down my opinions and views if they didn’t completely align with his, I almost wouldn’t call it an abusive situation if not for how he acted in the weeks before I left Baltimore.

During our first break - the one that he initiated that started all of this - I had left all my furniture in our apartment with him. This was furniture I owned, that I had moved with me down to Maryland when we moved in together. Not to mention, there were plenty of other pieces for which I had contributed half the money. Altogether, it totaled thousands of dollars worth in furniture. 

Not only did he not offer me any compensation or return any of my things, he outright refused to return two sentimental, cheap items I specifically requested: a book my father gave me, and a small toolbag full of maybe $80 worth of tools.
Instead, he became as belligerent as a child, calling me names and spewing vile - all in the name, I guess, of trying to elicit a reaction from me. I remained cool and polite, but firm. My firmness increased when I informed him I would be getting the police involved since he refused to return my property.

The problem was, I realized I didn’t actually have a legal document proving I owned that book and tool bag…because…ya know…it was a fucking book and a bag of tools and you don’t need paperwork for those things. But I also had a feeling that nothing but legal force would compel him to return my things, and so a police officer couldn’t force him to surrender my stuff without the required proof of ownership. At this point, I had officially broken up with him; he was trying to make the claim that since we were broken up and I had made no claim to my things, they were now his by default. I guess he was content to honor our breakup when it suited him, but not during his crusade to win me back…..strange.

Because of this, I called off the police intervention and re-blocked his number. Things were quiet for a few days, until I made the mistake of visiting a lake where we used to spend time together. I went not to mourn the past, but because I still loved feeding the ducks and geese that flocked at that lake.

I was giggling as a particularly determined goose stared me down for her snacks when I saw him striding up to me. My stomach dropped, but I determined I’d be civil. I said hello, which was not returned. Instead, he launched into a tirade meant to (somehow?) sway me into taking him back. He insisted love was unbreakable. He made no mention of the items he owed me. He made no mention of the fact I almost brought police to his doorstep. It was like none of that had ever happened. It was bizarre. 

I told him that we were still broken up and I stood by my choice. Then I let it slip I was moving out west. He incredulously asked what “those people” could give me that he couldn’t. The interrogation continued on in a similar fashion, him sprinkling in insults to my intelligence, until I had enough and walked back to my car. He followed and got within an inch of my nose, demanding I look at him. At that point, I started to feel more than threatened so I got in my car and pulled away, shutting the window even as he was still yammering at me. I might have held the speed record for how fast I zoomed around that lake. I was consumed only with getting away and not being followed. When I returned home, I scurried into my apartment and locked the door tight, hoping that was the last of that.

It wasn’t. The next day, I received a total of 56 calls spread around throughout the day. When he realized I wasn’t answering, he blocked his number so I wouldn’t see his caller ID.

I went to DC with some friends to get a break from all the chaos. When I returned that night, he had left a single one of my coffee mugs with a note demanding that I call him. 

It wasn’t the mug or note that upset me (still not my book…or my bag..!). It was the fact that he clearly felt comfortable with trespassing on my property in order to contact me…when I had made it absolutely clear we were broken up and that I didn’t want to speak to him after how spiteful he was being with my father’s book and my tools.

The next morning, I called my boss and promptly took the day off work. I felt like I was being watched. I worried he would try to turn up again on my doorstep and there would be a confrontation that I didn’t want to have. So, I packed up the remnants of my apartment and stuffed what I could into my car. I left that day. I abandoned the rest of my stuff in my apartment, knowing I didn’t have enough time to mail it ahead and package it.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I drove across the state line. With wide open road ahead, I thought I was in the clear. I thought I left behind all that drama for good.

But on my third day, driving across the plains of Colorado, I was greeted by a text from an unknown number. She introduced herself by name and said she was my ex’s girlfriend. Her text warned me not to trust him. I recognized her name. She had been periodically trying to get in touch with me during the week my ex and I were on our second break before the Adirondack trip. I had ignored her, thinking my ex was trying to orchestrate some mischief so I’d be jealous and take him back. It turns out she had sincerely been trying to reach me. I texted back and arranged to call. 

I pulled into a gas station and sat spellbound for over an hour as she revealed she had been dating him for over a year. She hadn’t known about me. I hadn’t known about her. She only found out about me when she saw my name on a piece of mail. As we compared timelines, it turns out that the entire reason he asked for a break in the first place was so that he could try dating this girl. Whom he had met on Bumble. Whom he texted at night while curled at my side in our shared bed.

There were many disturbing things she said, like the fact that he had told her he was only pursuing me so hard during our second break in the hopes I would concede so he could then dump me and purposefully break my heart. We laughed in disbelief over the screenshots we had of him begging to marry us both, often sent days or hours apart from each other.

But when she mentioned “those mean emails,” I asked her what she meant, since I hadn’t received any. “Oh you have. He’s sent them to you.” I checked my spam folder - I’d blocked his address - and there were emails. So, so many emails. At least 15 - 20. I lost track. Each email was paragraphs long, all devoted to telling me, in intricate detail, how much of a stupid bitch I was for leaving. How I was a worthless piece of shit. How much I’d regret leaving him. How I’d never be loved again. How I had no idea how good I had it. How he hated my guts and hoped I would suffer. How he was going to kill himself in the fall and it’s all my fault. On, and on, and on, and ONNNNNN it went.

Needless to say, when I hung up, I was completely floored. I was equal parts relieved that I had chosen to leave - I knew in my gut something was off - and equal parts horrified that he had cheated on me for a year. No wonder he was acting like a controlling, possessive, and manic weirdo when I returned from the Trail - he was trying to balance two secret girlfriends while simultaneously attempting to lock one of us down.

In the end, I was immensely proud of myself for choosing to leave him. And despite how shocked I was to learn any of this at all, part of me was glad I left before I knew about his infidelity. I left for me and me alone. I left because I outgrew him. I left because I knew I deserved so much better. I could have easily chosen to stay. But I didn’t. Rather than act as the catalyst for my decision to leave, uncovering his cheating only served to prove I was right about my choice, after the fact.

Since completing the trail in 2022, can you share with us some of the other challenges you have taken up in this time both personal and professional. 

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Once the chaos of moving to Utah settled down and I was able to relax into my new life, I was faced with the same predicament I always seem to be faced with: that enormous question, “what now!?” Before the Trail, my answer to that question was to bury myself in work and projects. I was obsessed with trying to chase my next “big thing,” my next goal, my next dream. But I wasn’t very good at slowing down to enjoy where I was or enjoy the process of attaining any of those goals.

A personal challenge, then, has been learning to navigate the balance between slowing down, being present, while also striving for my goals. I don’t want to be complacent. But I don’t want to only live for that elusive future either…a future that I have learned is certainly not guaranteed. 

Part of embracing that challenge included the enormous task of starting my book. I’ve felt the calling to write this book for a few years before I set off on my hike. I tried thinking of ways the manuscript would take shape while I was on the Trail. But interestingly enough, that book wouldn’t come until almost a full year after returning from my hike, after I’d had time to truly and deeply absorb the lessons I needed to learn.

One of those lessons was the answer to my previously mentioned challenge: how to navigate the tension between going after my goals but not losing myself to that pursuit. The Trail revealed itself as a giant metaphor for life: you’re striving for a goal (the end of the hike, or the end of your miles for the day) but at the same time, you can be fully present as you take each step. You can luxuriate in the sound of the birds or the smell of the dirt. You can feel deeply into your body and fill your lungs with mountain air. In this way, you’re practicing deep presence and gratitude while continuing to move forward.

Additionally, I’ve embarked on the long journey of doing more death work. Despite bearing the title of a death doula for almost five years, I had not been serving clients or my community. A lot of this hesitation came from the distractions in my life, namely, that less-than-healthy relationship that consumed almost all of my mental and emotional bandwidth.

But now that I’m here in Utah and my circumstances have calmed significantly, I have begun connecting with wonderful death workers doing amazing things. Some of them have begun to unofficially mentor me. I connected with the National Hospice and Palliative Care Organization (NHPCO) and am now serving as a volunteer grief supporter in their death doula program. I am working on solidifying my offerings so that I may continue to serve in this beautiful work. I hope to lean heavily on the aspect of storytelling by helping those approaching death (or who are perfectly healthy but still want to explore the healing power of writing!) to tell their life’s stories and find the thread of meaning and legacy running throughout.

On a less head-y note, another personal challenge I’ve embarked on is strength training in the gym! For my whole life, I was always underweight. “Scrawny” is the more accurate term. I lost even more weight on my long hike, my body fat withering down to nothing and the muscles in the top-half of my frame deteriorating. Even before that hike, I struggled to maintain weight. I never ate enough, despite loving all food. I tried weight gain programs and fitness routines that promised bigger legs and a curvier shape, but all was in vain.

After I returned from the Trail, I decided to experiment with my fitness. I began strength training, almost in a powerlifting style. In the past, I’d always worked out with higher volume but less heavy weights. Now, I was trying to do less volume but heavier weights, progressively increasing the load.

And guess what? Before I left for Trail, I was scared to deadlift 70lbs, hypervigilant about hurting my back. But now, two years later and with consistent training, (well…mostly consistent…I didn’t lift much when I first arrived in Utah…) I’m up to 175lbs, on track for a 200lb personal record by January 2025.

Where to from here Niki? Do you have any other big adventures planned for in the future? 

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Well, I’m planning to thru-hike the much smaller Foothills Trail in South Carolina this November. It’s less than eighty miles, and should only take a week at most, but I’m looking forward to fully immersing myself into nature for a few days. 

Next year, my partner and I are going to attempt a Long Trail thru-hike in Vermont. The Appalachian Trail actually shares the Long Trail for its first half of 273 miles. So I’ve technically already done that part. But it’s unfinished, and I want to complete it. I’m looking forward to taking my time through Vermont - actually savoring the journey, instead of rushing through like I foolishly did on my LASH.

Speaking of unfinished business, the Appalachian Trail and I have plenty of that, and so, I’m looking forward to one day setting foot on Katahdin as a true thru-hiker. I’m not entirely sure when, but I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied!

If you want to follow along on my upcoming thru-hikes, stick around! I’m thrilled to announce that my writing will be featured on The Trek blog, where I’ll be documenting my adventures on both my Foothills Trail and the Long Trail.

Until then, I’m enjoying my misadventures here in the Wasatch Front in Utah. I’m spending my summer peak-bagging the local mountains, growing ever-more obsessed with climbing, and working on my deadlift in the gym. And in the winter, I get to ski the greatest snow on earth and tick all the resorts off my list! Overall, life is pretty damn sweet.

Words of Wisdom 

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If I could share any sort of “wisdom,” it would be to just do the damn thing. Do the thing that scares you shitless. Preferably, it would be nice if you give your situation some sort of forethought. But you can do hard things. You can build a beautiful life that you’re proud of. The asking price of that life might be a lot of pain and mistakes, as was certainly the case for me. There are many regrets but in a strange way, I hesitate to label them “regrets.” Because if given the opportunity, I would gladly do it all again to have a shot at the life I have now.

I would say to slow down and enjoy the journey. I fucking suck at that. I fucking sucked that that a lot worse before Trail. Out there, I learned that there’s no point in being pissy because plans got changed or you had to pivot or you couldn’t hike to the destination you intended. It’s part of the journey. Either accept it or be miserable.

Life is finite and precious. The things you hope for and plan for in five years could evaporate in an instant: whether that’s through an unexpected breakup, as was the case for me, or through a tragic death, through a job layoff, through anything crazy Life can throw at you.

Plan for your future, yes. Anticipate it with joy! But don’t hang your hat entirely upon it. Mary Oliver asks, “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” What is worthy of your limited time? What will you do with your numbered days? Consider these questions carefully. You might find that the answers surprise you. Who knows? You might find that one answer to Mary’s question is to embark on a long Appalachian Trail hike of your own.

To continue following our explorer Niki’s journey or simply want to reach out and say Hi, you can connect with them on the following accounts:

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Niki Digaetano’s writing community:

nikielle.substack.com.

Over there, I write about my Trail experience in-depth (like, day-by-day glimpses into the daily life of a piece of hiker trash!).

I’m also writing that aforementioned book combining the story of my hike (and everything it taught me) with the sacred wisdom of death work and the outdoors. I share exclusive excerpts from that book with my newsletter audience.

Finally but perhaps most importantly, I write about the insights gleaned from my work as a death doula and grief supporter on living, dying, and mental health. I believe death and the outdoors have so much to teach us about living well. 

P.s.: If newsletters really aren’t your thing, I’m on Instagram as well: nikielle.writing, numbereddays.doula

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