Month: March 2025

576

The other day, a manilla envelope appeared in my campus mailbox.

There was nothing particularly disguishing about it. Were you to try to fathom its contents, the only hint of its import was the sender, a name synonymous with hiking in this part of the world: Ed. Keeper of all things Grid.

My scroll had arrived!

It almost felt like, longlong ago, when you were waiting for word from your number one college choice, hoping the letter would come, hoping it would be today, hoping it would be fat.

Though just a piece of paper, this scroll (and related bling) represented to me the years I have been privileged to walk day and night, through sunlight and starlight and every changing season, over the four corners of the wild. (Psalm 74, loosely quoted)

It feels good to be a member of this club, whose current members number less than 200. But although I am happy about this milestone, the real essence of the Grid was the deep repair it worked in my heart over the footfalls, over the peaks, over the years and years of dancing in the sky.

Bondcliff, October 2019

Untethered and soul-starved, I needed something to laser my focus.

Last ascent of Madison, March 2025

Up high, I didn’t mind feeling small; in all that expanse, I never felt alone.

There was simply too much beauty, too much wildness, too much of the forensic hand of the Creator softly shaving the edges of my loneliness until all I wanted was to be up there, with Him.

Franconia Ridge December 2023, negative double digit windchill

I started counting peaks back on June 21, 2018, on Mt. Washington, a stroll up Lion’s Head and back down through the Alpine Garden.

I finished on Washington, as well, on March 11, 2025, though this wasn’t planned. The weather in 2025 held me anxious and stressed, wanting so badly to finish but also wary of what could happen should I decide poorly. Washington waited for last.

Depth of snow on Jewell Trail, last ascents of Monroe and Washington

Weighty things take time. Like loss, like grief, or even faith, you don’t need to tackle it all at once. In fact, you can’t.

Cannon Mountain, September 2018

I remember driving up the access road in 2020 to the trailhead for Mt. Carrigain. It was only my second time, and I remember wondering how I was ever going to do this hike in the winter, when the access road was closed, adding almost 6 miles to an already long day. I wasn’t sure I could.

Carrigain, New Years Day 2024

But as I ventured further and further into the woods, as my experience grew and my fear abated, I found that though we might want suddenly, it is gradually that is often wiser, more humane.

Trekking pole showing depth of the snow on last ascent of Owls Head, March 2025

His hand is slow, but it’s never late.

Approach to North Kinsman, April 2021

So many things happened in all those years, the physical ones easier to measure.

In the 7 years and 9 months it took me to Grid, I went through: 8 pairs trail runners, 4 pairs hiking boots, 4 sets trekking/ski poles, 2 pairs rain pants, 3 rain jackets, 2 day packs, 2 winter packs, 2 pairs snowshoes, 1 phone, 1 car, and more water bottles than I could count. (It took me awhile to figure out how not to drop them. Sorry, LNT).

Wildcat Ridge Trail, September 2023

I had a favorite sweater that went through each washing like a champ and never smelled.

This one, above, from Title Nine, on Moriah, September 2023

A buff my daughter gave me, which always made me think of her when I put it on.

Madison, October 2022

It didn’t necessarily help with the hair, but up there, I really didn’t care.

Post an Adams/Jefferson out and back, September 2020

Eisenhower, April 2021

Last trip out to Jefferson, March 2025

There were people, so many people, along the way. My kids, who watched out for me, via text, on every peak. Lori Hall, who first told me about the Grid. Philip Carcia, the wolf of the Whites, whose encouragement and support meant the world. Georg, legend, whose advice was always gold. Brooke and Lad, who let me join them midway through a Bond/Zealand traverse and gave me a ride back to my car. Summerset, who also came through in a similar way. Numerous groups of Holderness students on their Outback program, reminding me of the son who once did the same.

Online friends who heartened. You, reading now. Aggie and Donna and Melissa, always in my corner. Ed Hawkins, of course, for managing all of us Gridiots.

Zealand with Brooke and Lad, March 2024

I did all the peaks solo except for one traverse of the Bonds, with Carolyn, and a Carter/Wildcat traverse with Timothy, my old hockey coaching partner. I’ll probably replace those hikes later this year just to say I did them all alone, but I’m thankful for the fun we had on those hikes. Their company was sweet.

Mishaps occurred, as they often do. Broken bones, bruises, bonks on the head from ice-laden branches, scratches and sticks and blisters galore. Toenails went missing. Once, I burned the top of my ankle with a toe warmer on a bitter cold day on the Bonds.

Ouch

Why it burned one side but not the other I cannot say, but the scar persists.

There were lots of animals, mostly birds, but one moose on Isolation. A mouse, strangely, on Lafayette, the day before that same hike would claim the life of 19 year-old Emily Sotelo in November of 2022.

What are doing up here, little one?

When I started to Grid, there was so much I didn’t know. So much I still don’t.

Last ascent Adams, March 2025

Jackson, May 2021

My gear currently sits in a crate on the porch. I’m a little tired and need a break from constantly checking the weather, my schedule, the snack cabinet, a list.

Clouds over the Gulfside Trail, February 2025

I hope to keep hiking a long, long time.

Up high, there’s a peace I find nowhere else. A closeness to my son, my mom and dad, the ache not absent, but assuaged.

November 2022 on South Twin

No step is ever wasted as we steer toward eternity.

Wild and wonderful is this world you have made. (Psalm 104:24)

It has been an honor to have trod its paths.

Sunshine State

This winter was rough.

The weather conspired at every turn to keep me from the northern mountains, from finally finishing a hiking list I’ve been working on since June of 2018 (more on that in a future post). When that magic moment came at last, my March break had shrunk, leaving me with only a little over a week to escape to Florida and walk another section of its iconic trail.

The clock was ticking.

Further complicating matters was, not surprisingly, more bad weather, this time rain storms north of the Suwannee River. The trail alongside was flooded again, and I had to scramble to find another section, somewhere to park my car safely, and a trail angel to give me a ride.

I had long anticipated walking the southern levees of the Florida Trail; pictures I had seen showed long, flat, dry stretches of trail running next to canals and lakes bathed in the glorious glow of a benevolent sun. Sick of winter, this seemed like the perfect option: maps were gathered, details confirmed, items hastily thrown in pack and car.

It was time to head south.

I spent the night before hitting trail in my car at Hobe Sound Beach; waiting for Darby, the trail angel giving me a ride, I joined other early risers catching the colorful sunrise.

Hobe Sound Beach is the eastern terminus of another, shorter Florida trail called the Ocean to Lake Hiking Trail. My plan was for Darby to drop me off 110 miles north/west of this terminus and walk back on 50 miles of Florida Trail, then join the 61 miles of Ocean to Lake where its western terminus intersected with the FT at Lake Okeechobee. I was already planning on a celebratory hop in the waves in five days time.

Because I had patched my itinerary together so quickly, I hadn’t really had time to study my maps or the FarOut app to glean what was to come. Blissfully ignorant, I waved good-bye to Darby at the intersection of US Route 98 and NW 144 and started walking.

Yikes.

There was no shade anywhere. Road, field, and eventually the canal levees were all fully exposed with few places to duck out of the heat along the way. It was a barrage, a state of constant sunshine I could not outwalk.

Water was scarce. I rationed as best I could and carried multiple liters. Although I hiked for miles along a bike path with canal on one side and Lake Okeechobee on the other, both were full of both potential agricultural run-off and alligators. So no, not great sources for hydration.

Luckily, people along the way were incredibly generous. The first day, I passed an older gentleman in a golf cart who filled all my bottles with cold water from a jug. Trail angels left stations along the dryer sections, though many of these were not kept up due to the lateness of the hiking season.

The barkeep at a fish camp a half mile off the canal told me no one along Lake Okeechobee drinks water from the faucet; she, too, filled me up from a fridge of bottled water behind the bar.

Tenting along the dike was tricky, as well. The bike path sloped down in both directions and the designated campsites were too close to civilization for me, as a lone female hiker, to trust. One night I slept next to a water control station, the next under a covered bench.

I woke up early to get in a few hours of sunless hiking.

The moon was bright and full, and I walked without a headlamp while the dawn crept slowly up from behind the distant trees.

Late on the morning of the third day, I finally reached the terminus of the Ocean to Lake Trail, wondering how I ever could have thought that walking on sun beaten levees would be fun.

I was never happier to be back in the woods. This was the Florida I had come to know and love: saw palmettos, grassy prairies, soft, sandy paths.

Shade.

The FarOut app kept mentioning swamp buggy trails along the initial stretch of the OTL, and I started to pass evidence of their assault.

These massive vehicles crash through the forest, tearing up ground and leaving scarred swaths behind. I passed a fleet of the offending machines during a late afternoon sprinkle and thought what a shame it was that the drivers couldn’t appreciate the surrounding beauty in a less offensive way.

Other creatures tore up the trail. Feral pigs roamed the woods, rooting up lengths of the path with their powerful tusks.

What they left behind was a minefield of furrows and holes that could roll any inattentive ankle. The morning of the fourth day, all fury rained down from the sky. Marching along, hunched over against the storm, I surprised a herd of these bellicose brutes grunting on either side of me. Perhaps they were as startled as I, for we both scattered, squealing, in opposite directions.

Despite the storm, my feet were the driest they had ever been in any previous year. I even opted to skip a high water bypass, taking instead the direct route through an actual pond. I was so happy I did. Flocks of white birds circled overhead as I slushed along in the cool, clear water.

Later, I turn a corner and a small fawn wobbles toward me, ears alert and curious. It’s the sweetest moment, a reward for the agony of the dikes.

The last day comes all too soon. I weave in and out between forest road and trail in Jonathan Dickinson State Park.

There are boardwalks and bridges, cacti and creative blazing, as I approach the end of the wilderness and cross the threshold back into the world on one last sandy push.

Time to swim.

I dump the pack in my car and race toward the beach. Huge waves smash against the sand, and no one is swimming. Cautiously, I wade out, hoping I’m not breaking some rule.

The water is wild and I time a crest, ducking under at the last minute. The force pulls me under froth and foam. I almost lose my shorts and hope the nice families of Hobe Sound are looking elsewhere. For a brief second, I wonder if I’ll be pulled out to sea, but I stagger to my feet, laughing, baptized, fully alive.

Driving home is uneventful. I’m tired, of course, and footsore.

But infinitely grateful that there is a trail I can retreat to when winter overwhelms, grateful for the wild, grateful there is Someone watching over me through the good and the hard.