Magic in the Mountains

The Arizona sun beat down on me as I took the umpteenth step of the day. Sweat streamed into my eyes, mingling with the layers of sunscreen I had caked on. I paused, moving my trekking poles to one hand so that I could swipe an arm over my forehead. I adjusted my hat, shifted my pack, and was off. On an 800 mile long journey, I didn’t feel like I had time to lollygag over basic necessities like clear vision.

Crunching gravel behind me prompted me to glance over my shoulder. Tuffles, my fiance and long time hiking partner, was making his way along the trail at a leisurely pace. “How much longer into town, do you think?” I asked when he was within earshot. He yanked out a headphone and motioned for me to repeat my question. Not wanting to waste my breath, I pulled out my phone and opened the Arizona Trail map on FarOut. “Looks like we still have a couple of miles to go…” I said reluctantly. “Hopefully we’ll catch up to Pimento soon.”

The day marked day 21 of our planned thru hike of the Arizona Trail. Truffles, Pimento, and I all met while thru hiking the Appalachian Trail in 2021. Despite being a novice backpacker, I chose to embark on the 2193.1 mile journey north from Georgia to Maine. Along the way I shed my worldly comforts and settled into the simple routine of forward momentum. Now, in 2023, I once again had the opportunity to run into the wilderness for an extended period. This hike came a month before Truffles’ and I’s wedding and in the middle of our second season working as backpacking guides together in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The AT had given me a taste of true freedom and synchronization with nature. Working as a guide allowed me to move between the civilized world and nature’s rhythms.

The Arizona Trail is an 800 mile long trail that travels the length of the state of Arizona. It begins at the Mexico border and ends at the Utah border. Truffles and I had been itching to cross another long trail off our list, and the Arizona Trail just made sense. It was long enough to feel like we were really doing something, but short enough that we wouldn’t have to upend our lives for another six month stretch. We were able to negotiate two months away from work in order to complete the trail. When we told our AT trail family about our plans, Pimento said he’d come along too. Plans were made, plane tickets were bought, and I posted to Instagram to announce our impending journey.

Thanks to the rise of social media, hiking influencers are popping up left and right. Following along with someone’s journey as they struggle through heat, snow, hunger, and pain can be done all from the comfort of home just by watching a screen. Feeling like you are right there with them without actually having to endure any of the suffering or turmoil has appealed to the masses, with YouTube vlogs, Instagram Reels, and TikTok videos amassing thousands of views. I watched countless videos and read multiple articles prior to my first thru hike, and I wanted to share my latest adventure with others. For that reason, I began posting about my preparation prior to starting the trail, and actively blogged while I was on the AZT.

After several more hot and dry miles, Truffles and I hiked into the Picketpost Trailhead with hopes of catching a ride into the town of Superior, AZ. Basking in the shade of a picnic pavilion we reunited with Pimento who had connected with Al, a local trail angel. Long distance hikers often remark that the trail restored their faith in humanity. People are kind and selfless to complete strangers and expect nothing in return. Trail angels are people who do nice things for hikers, often called trail magic. It could be anything from driving a hiker to the grocery store, setting out a cooler of drinks at a trailhead, or even giving hikers a place to stay. 

Al was a trail angel in its truest form and agreed to give us a ride into town and even offered to let us stay in his home. Soaking up all of Al’s hospitality, we showered, ate, and relaxed around a fire pit in Al’s backyard later that evening. I lazily scrolled through Facebook as we traded stories into the evening hours. A post in an AZT Facebook group caught my eye: countless hikers ahead of us were sharing herroring experiences of attempting to trek miles through snow at the northern half of the trail. People were advising hikers to carry ice axes, cross country skis, and snowshoes.

I hurriedly showed the post to Truffles and Pimento and we began talking through what the rest of our hike would look like. This was the Arizona Trail. We came expecting to hike through extreme desert heat and past regal saguaro cactus, not post-hole through knee deep snow. We knew we couldn’t do anything about the snow at that moment, so we decided to get some sleep and see what the following day would hold.

We awoke to another distressing Facebook post in the form of a press release from the National Park Service. As of that morning, April 7th, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon was closing due to snow and would not reopen until June. The AZT enters the Grand Canyon National Park and traverses down the south rim before crossing the Colorado River and climbing out of the canyon to exit on the North Rim. Approximately 40 miles of the AZT winds through GCNP, and after leaving the northern park boundary, there are only 70 miles left to Utah. 

The closure was credited to a “record-setting snow season”, which reinforced previous posts detailing impassable snow conditions. We read multiple posts from hikers saying they made it through the snow but wouldn’t advise it, and even more posts from hikers saying they were getting off trail. The comments on every post were full of conflicting opinions and advice. As I scrolled, I could feel myself become overwhelmed and panicked. We were not prepared or equipped to deal with snow. I felt powerless to the whims of the elements. I sat comfortably in a stranger’s home worrying about conditions hundreds of miles up the trail. I was convinced we needed to decide then and there how we would navigate the closure and make alternate plans. 

Since setting off from the Mexico border, I continued posting online about the AZT. I gained a small following and spent hours on trail typing away on my phone to post blog updates and photos. With every like and comment, I felt a rush of dopamine. Was I posting to share my experiences, or was I doing it for the feedback and validation from others? My hiking resume had grown substantially since completing the AT. I put a lot of stock into my accomplishments and felt that they helped solidify my place in the hiking community. My identity was wrapped up in my achievements, and the only thing that made me feel like I belonged was the fact that I was a thru hiker. Others were interested in what I had to say because I had hiked thousands of miles. My content was relevant because I had the knowledge and experience to back it up. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. 

I have struggled with imposter syndrome for years, using accolades and to validate that I have earned a place of recognition. My GPA in high school proved that I was cut out for college. Landing a competitive internship proved I was competent in my field. Being hired at my dream job straight out of college proved that I was on the right path. Each milestone was a brick laid into the foundation of plans for my future. It wasn’t until covid huffed and puffed that I discovered that my solid foundation was actually made of straw. My carefully laid plans were blown down by mass layoffs in the wake of the pandemic in late 2020. Maybe I hadn’t been good at my job and that’s really why I was let go. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for the career I had spent my life working towards. Grappling with self doubt, I had found my way to Springer mountain and began to pick up the pieces and imagine a new life as I hiked towards Katahdin.

Standing on that mountain top in Maine, “thru hiker” had become my new identity. Now in Arizona, if I wasn’t going to finish the AZT, how could I still call myself a thru hiker? Who would I be without this title? Would clients on my backpacking trips still consider me a competent guide? How would people on social media react to this shortcoming? These fears and questions consumed my thoughts as Al’s tail lights faded into the distance. He had dropped us off back at Picketpost Trailhead. After much debate, we had decided to hike out of Superior with an adjusted itinerary. We accepted that, due to the snow, we would not be able to complete the AZT like we had planned. Instead, we planned to hike 150 miles north from Superior to Pine, where we would officially end our hike. Hiking 456 miles is a monumental feat, but when it’s barely over half of what we set out to do, it felt like a failure.

As I hiked into the setting sun, I began to ponder if maybe the sun was also setting on the identity I had given myself. What would happen if I wasn’t so wrapped up in what other people think and I just simply let myself experience life in front of me? Just because this journey didn’t pan out the way I expected didn’t take away from the time I got to once again live in harmony with nature. The AZT allowed me to rise with the sun and drink water as it bubbled out of the earth. I slept under the stars and watched cactus wrens build their nests in towering saguaros. The vastness of my hike couldn’t be summarized in words or condensed to fit on a screen. Each step brought me closer to the end of my Arizona Trail hike, and to the end of feeling like I needed others to validate myself.

Days later, I walked through a rusted cattle gate that barred the AZT from the road. I turned, and laid my hand on the trail emblem welded into the gate. “I’ll be back.” I whispered to the trail. My next steps took me off the AZT and into a new chapter of my life. No longer defined by my experiences, I am now a person living without labels or need for acceptance from others. To no longer think of myself as a thru hiker I had to walk away from the trail. As the dust settles and the sun sinks low in the sky, I realize I’ve been hiking towards myself all along.