About a week ago, I saw a window between duty and the many appointments dealing with my injury.
Impulsively, I packed up the car and set out early one morning to drive to the Gaspe Peninsula, a place I’ve long wanted to explore.
I’m so glad I did. So much beauty packed onto one spit of land, it wasn’t possible to see it all in one short week.
So many trees!
And seals that howled like wolves.
The largest colony of Northern Gannets, squawking and tussling like my middle school students.
Rocks everywhere, grand and common.
Ocean, gulf, river, lake: water in all its diverse forms.
Did I mention trees? The stunning variety of them, their sweet shade, the heady, pine-y scent; spontaneous gratitude would often erupt in my soul for God’s gracious gift of trees.
Every day, I tried to walk a little further on the local trails until, at last, I felt ready to tackle an actual mountain.
Standing proudly on the tip of Gaspe in Forillon National Parc, Mont Saint-Alban, at 285 meters, was a little over a five mile loop, much of it on the International Appalachian Trail.
Seemed like as good a place as any to kick the tires.
Rain pelted my windshield as I parked at the trailhead, waiting for a break. Yes, I wanted to see the views promised in the trail description, but I also longed to see if my damaged soft tissue was healed enough to propel me up the mountain.
Muscle memory took over as I exited the car and practically danced – cautiously – toward the summit and the observation tower at the top.
Perhaps, upon discovering that my legs did, in fact, still work, a view would be nice after all. I willed the misty clouds to part at every outlook.
When I reached the top tier of the tower, they did, in part, recede, affording me some of the most elegant displays of the entire trip.
And that’s when it hit me.
Without the clouds to frame the landscape, the tip of the Gaspe, the cliffs and trees and sea, would have appeared flat, dull. It was the clouds themselves that revealed the beauty.
For the rest of the trip and thereafter, I started paying attention. Cataloguing.
Confident in my restored limbs, I tackled Mont Jacques-Cartier.
Found other paths.
Everywhere I looked.
Veil in sky or vapor over field.
The clouds were the show.
Integral, insistent.
We so often denigrate the clouds in our lives. The times when the sun is shrouded and our lives are marred by frustration, confusion, and pain.
But what if -?
What if those times are necessary, to help us truly see and appreciate and know?
Perhaps we don’t value a thing until it is lost, for a season or forever.
I want to look with new eyes.
To not despise those cloaked things.
It is said my King will one day return. It is said He will come with clouds.
Should I be found here, waiting, when this occurs, let it be with a heart full of gratitude for the times with and the times without.
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)
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.
Six years ago, I decided to forego the stereotypical Florida spring break – beach novels, umbrella drinks, motels – and explore instead one of America’s least beloved long distance hikes, The Florida Trail.
Swamps and road walks are two of the main reasons why the Florida Trail gets a bad rap amongst some of its showier neighbors, like the Appalachian Trail or the Pacific Crest Trail, but over the years I have come to appreciate its quirky nature, despite its propensity to repeatedly beat me up.
This year, my cousin agrees to keep watch over my car after dropping me off at mile marker 325.8, 120 miles away, on the outskirts of Tosohatchee State Preserve.
I know from researching on the FarOut app that Tosohatchee is going to be one of the swampier sections I’ll encounter this trip, and I want to be ready.
I pray in advance against the fear that has paralyzed me in the past when encountering the black water, muddy sinkholes, and potential alligators of these sections. I want to enjoy every part of my hike this year, even the scarier bits, and it’s not long before those challenges begin.
Within the first mile, I’m ankle- and shin- deep in water, but I find that by looking ahead to the next orange blaze – reasoning how not-far-away it is – I can slosh through the cool water and appreciate the beauty, even when my shoes fill with silt and I’m slashed by spikey overgrowth.
I even decide against the high-water route, which, according to FarOut, was impassable a month earlier, testing those prayers as I’m in and out of cypress swamps all afternoon.
Luckily, my first night brings me to the Fort Christmas Baptist Church/ Hiker Haven, where Pastor Ken opens a spacious log cabin just for me. He even stocks the fridge with mini-Reeses, my absolute favorite.
I don’t feel quite worthy of the warm outdoor shower and roof over my head, given I’ve only done 15 miles and it’s my first day, but I enjoy the luxury in the spirit of “the trail provides.”
That night, I am welcomed into a sobriety group that meets in the cabin on Tuesday nights. The moderator, Glen, includes me in the conversation by asking how hiking relates to the topics they discuss. This is a safe group of fellow believers, and I marvel at how such an eclectic span of people – from an elderly cowboy to a middle age couple to a young 20-something, sweet-faced girl working on her first few months – can be so honest and open about their struggles and triumphs.
We discuss Psalm 23, talk about how God prepared one of the attendees for the death of her father.
I am blown away by these two ideas juxtaposed, as I recall how God prepared me for the death of my son eight years ago. Has it really been that long?
For a few weeks leading up to his crash, I kept seeing Psalm 23 everywhere I turned – in my daily devotions, in random emails, on the wall of a laundromat. Everywhere.
Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.
I will not fear.
The very prayer I had been praying all day.
As we hug good-bye and wish one another Godspeed through our unique valleys, I remember hearing, years ago, how a shadow cannot harm. Lacking substance, a shadow is nothing to be afraid of; I can walk through shadows – even unpleasant, squishy ones – with bold confidence, trusting the One who is always with me.
I go to sleep thankful for the gift of this meeting, unexpected yet profound.
It rains overnight, so packing up dry is a joy. So are the miles ahead, as armadillos, tortoises, snakes, and even a skunk pepper the trail, reminding me that even though this section skirts the urban sprawl of Orlando, the rightful residents still find a way to endure.
An added bonus are the many opportunities to refuel along the way: smoothie shops, Starbucks, Publix. As I wend my way north, the sprawl thickens and I find myself, after miles of concrete, longing for a swamp or two.
In Paisley, I stop at a Dollar General to resupply and find a puddle of shade. Sitting on a dirty curb, it takes me four tries to hit the right pocket to drain the fluid from a blister on the sole of my foot. I listen as a man f-bombs his children into silence as they wait, strapped in car seats, for him to unpack his cart of groceries. I’m broken by the sadness of it all.
I wish there were something I could do, but his hostility is unsafe, and I get up and keep walking.
A night spent in a sketchy tent sight right off a busy bike path gives me the willies, as does a warning on FarOut.
I will not fear, I will not fear, I will not fear.
I wake up early and hoof it through that section, happy to leave Orlando behind.
Thankfully, the trail leads upward into Seminole State and Ocala National Forests, where I discover lakes, a wild orange tree, vast prairies, and nature resiliently recovering from prescribed burns.
Full disclosure: the orange tasted more like a lemon, but the liquid novelty made up for it.
On the last day, I pop out of the woods at the same road crossing where my cousin dropped me off a year earlier, linking last year’s miles with this year’s.
The shadows recede as she gives me a ride back to my car.
What began, years ago, as a way to escape the cold has become one of the highlights of my spring break.
I’m grateful that I still have a few hundred miles left, grateful that they will be there for me next spring, grateful that I can hike them and not be afraid.
walkwithme413 