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Taking Grief to the Trail
I was 15 or 16 when I decided I wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail. Well, decided might be the wrong word: I was highly interested in the idea (or rather, my romanticized idea of what 2,200 miles of hiking looked like) and thought, Yeah, I’m going to do that one day.
But, life.
Over the next decade, I stepped foot on the AT exactly one time. (When I was 19, my then-boyfriend and I exhausted all other date ideas – small towns, am I right – and walked about half a mile of the AT – in jeans and western boots! – on a whim.) I graduated high school, went to community college, moved to Boston for college college, moved back home during the pandemic, got into grad school, and by this time last year, was getting ready to move again.
Though he never said so, my dad was sad that I was moving far away again. I know this because he started spending more time than usual with me, which included finding places for us to hike every weekend. One Saturday last May, Dad suggested the AT. He had never even laid eyes on it. I hadn’t in nearly five years – I was 24 by then – and I was so excited to show him.
We drove to the nearest trailhead, parked, and started walking, no map, no agenda, and no idea which direction we were headed (south, a couple of more serious hikers informed us, although it didn’t really matter. We were just there to see what the AT was all about). After a mile or so, we crossed paths with a couple of northbound thru-hikers and talked to them for the better part of an hour. I don’t remember their names or even most of what was said, but I do remember their faces, the way they laughed and smiled as they recalled all the injuries, fears, and unexpected occurrences of their past two months on the trail. Something about their radiance and confidence really struck me. Dad was inspired too; I could tell. We parted from the hikers and kept walking, an enchanted new energy in our steps.
By the time we got back to the trailhead, Dad and I had already started talking about thru-hiking ourselves. I don’t know if you could even call it a “decision” – Dad was years away from retirement and I would be in Nashville for at least three years for my master’s program, so the possibility of seriously planning a thru-hike together seemed a long way out of reach. But over the next few months, we talked about it often. Most of the time, Dad was the one who brought it up.
Our conversations went something like this:
Him: “I’d like to hike that whole trail, wouldn’t you?”
Me: “Yeah, I’d like to do it too.”
There was no commitment, but the desire was still there. Growing. Taking up a lot of space in my mind. If you’d asked me my one life goal, biggest dream, or the one thing I wanted to do before I died, I would have answered with thru-hiking the AT. Sometimes I’d half-joke with Dad that I was going to have to do it soon before it drove me crazy, maybe even right after grad school, with or without him.
“Don’t even think about it,” he’d say. “You’re not going without me.”
But, life.
Or rather…not.
Guess we jinxed ourselves.
Ugh.
Time measured in grief is senseless and infinite: there’s no definite beginning and definitely no end. Dad passed away in November when the leaves were peaking – I turned my clock back the morning I got the call – and now my clock is sprung forward again, and the sugar maple in the front yard is showing its bright red buds. A whole season of dark and dormancy has passed, and I can’t tell you how I’ve passed it. The seconds run into hours run into weeks of…well, what have I been doing, exactly? Reeling and roaming and trying to figure out what’s next, what really matters, and how to memorialize the way-too-short time I had with Dad. Grief is the endless, exhausting work of wrapping your head around the unbelievable fact of someone’s sudden not-existing.
And that, I suppose, is how the minutes turn to months.
Here are the questions that keep pushing through the fog of my brain. What does it mean to honor a lost loved one, and how can it be done in a way most authentic to your relationship with them? What does it mean to keep them alive in your memory? (I hate this phrase and never want to hear it again, yet I still don’t have a good-enough answer to stop thinking about it.) I’ve discovered that a funeral, a headstone, and sitting in Dad’s favorite spot on the couch isn’t enough. Even the heartfelt obituary I wrote feels like flat, empty words on a page.
Maybe this is just a part of grief, feeling like the deceased deserve more than you can give them.
And maybe this won’t be enough either, but it’s worth a shot, doing alone the big crazy thing I thought Dad and I would one day do together.
Well, not quite alone.
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Comments 29
Beautiful words, Emilee.
Blessings on your way.
Steve / pearwood
After reading your narrative, may the trail provide the solace, and a reflection of memories that will fuel every step you take. May the journey provide the care and comfort from fellow hikers and perhaps grievers on the road not so easily traveled.
Blessings of safety and sanctuary…
Thank you!
Em, sitting here in tears after reading your beautiful words. We miss Tom so bad and are broken after his sudden passing, and we are heartbroken for you, Erik, and Debbie.
I hope this journey helps you heal, gives you a renewed spirit, and peace beyond all understanding.
Let us know when you are close to Damascus, we will meet you for lunch and a hot shower.
I pray the Lord blesses you on this journey, keeps you safe, and your dream comes true of finishing the thru-hike on the AT!
We love and pray for you daily!!! (((Hugs)))
Traci, Uncle Brian, and Rhytts
Love you all so much!
Hi Emilee,
I am very sorry about your fathers passing. I think it is wonderful you are sharing your story though, because it takes courage. I actually came across this article this evening completely by chance. I am glad I stumbled upon it though. My Dad passed away in February this year. He had been battling kidney cancer for a little over a year, when it suddenly spread and the illness took over. My Dad was my anchor, and his death has been soul-crushing. I understand what you mean by the minutes feel like hours. The other part of my story is that I have actually been training for a section hike of the AT for many months. But when my Dad passed, I wasn’t even sure if it was something I wanted, or could do. I decided I would give it my best shot. I know my dad would have supported me regardless of my decision. While I am on trail, I am really trying to find ways to help me stay connected to him even though he has passed. For me, that is music, reading, and really just being outside. It was comforting for you to acknowledge grief on the trail, so thank you for sharing your story. Best of luck on your hike!!!
~Gloria
I’m so humbled that my words resonated for you, Gloria. So sorry for the loss of your father. I hope you can find ways to honor your relationship with him while hiking. All the best to you on your journey! Good luck out there!
M, what a beautiful tribute to your father. He was so proud of you and your brother. Cynthia’s father did the whole trail after he retired, Cynthia just recently climbed Mt. Katahdin and spread his ashes, she has walked many miles on the trail ( it’s her way to unwind) we pray you will use insight and wisdom while walking alone and that this will give you some closure. We live right on the trail in Bland now and when you get near Kimberly Creek let us know and we will feed you and let you shower and stay overnight if you like. Tom worked for our Son and Traci is my Sister. We have special memories of your Dad, and his family we love you and hope you stay safe❤️??♂️
Thank y’all so much!
Your Dad was right. You’re not doing it alone.
You’re a fine writer with a good heart, a sweetheart.
All the best to you on the trail and everything else in your life.
I don’t even know you and I’m proud of you.
Stay safe out there.
Tod
Thank you, Tod, for your incredibly kind words. All the best to you as well.
May the trail bring you peace and connection with your father. I can’t think of a better way to both grieve and honor a loved one, especially a dad. Stay safe. Wishing you all the best. And if you haven’t read Wild by Cheryl Strayed yet, get to it.
Thank you for the kind words, Lindsay. Wild is one of my favorite books!
I can tell from your writing that your dad will always be with you. Hike the AT with joy. I think your dad would want it that way.
Thank you, Bruce!
So proud of you Emilee , so excited to follow you on this journey .
We love you ♥️
Love y’all♥️
Emilee,
I stumbled onto this article by pure accident opening Google on my phone and your article was in the newsfeed. Everything you said about time and grief certainly resonates with me as well and also so many of the things you said about honoring a loved one after they’re gone. I lost my wife on November 2nd 2021 to cervical cancer at the age of 31. It is a daily struggle for me but it’s also still very fresh and the grief is overwhelming at times. Time does seem to pass at a rapid rate and yet somehow feels like only a week has gone by. Adjusting to life without someone who was close whether a spouse or immediate family, is very difficult to say the least. Like you, she and I had also talked about doing the AT someday and both have/had a deep love of hiking/camping/nature etc. I think it’s great that you’re going on this journey and I wish you the absolute best as you also walk through grief and figure out what that path looks like for you. While your trek won’t “fix” it, I do hope it brings some sort of healing to you and time to for you to reflect. We really never have as much time as we think. Thank you for sharing your story and having the courage and vulnerability to be open.
Best wishes,
-Austin
If you ever want to reach out, I’m on Facebook and Instagram. @bone_and_shadow
What a thoughtful and resonating comment, Austin. I’m so sorry for the loss of your wife. I hope you find ways to continue honoring and connecting with her, and that time brings you healing as well. All my very best to you on this incredibly difficult journey.
I lost my rock (mom) 2 years ago and grief led me to the trails here in Northwest Arkansas…all of them. Your story touched me immensely…at times it was like reading my own words. Please know you aren’t alone…and if I had my shit together… I’d kill to hike the AT with you. Sending you strength and love!
Thank you so very much for the kind words. I hope you get the chance to get out on the trail one day!
Brought tears to my eyes. As the father of a 21 year old young woman that’s one month away from graduating college, I know exactly how your father felt.
Live a good life, and be happy Emilee. How proud he must have been of you! I wish you the very best ❤️
Thank you for such kind words, John! I really appreciate your encouragement.
I’m sorry for your loss! My Dad passed away 3 years ago this March. I was given much more time with my Dad than you were. But in the end, it doesn’t matter – grief is grief + it sneaks up on me in so many unexpected ways. My Dad was the first one to take me hiking + onto the AT. I carry a picture of him in my pack on every trip so that he’s physically (sort of) always with me. I can hear him encouraging me at times. Take your Dad with you, in whatever you do!
I’m sorry for your loss too, Kat. I’m so glad you’ve also found a way to connect with your Dad through hiking. All my best to you!
Emilee, Understand what you’re doing and hope it succeeds. I believe in you. You may be interested to find that I see it from your Dad’s side. I’m an older man. I could retire but don’t want to. But my health has started showing cracks that will never reseal. I know you are going to experience things on the trail that will actually make you start to turn to point them out to your dad–and the ache when it hits you that he’s not there is a special kind pain. I’m sure you’ve all ready experienced it. Sadly, the more wondrous what you want to share is, the greater the pain. Your father would never want that pain to even slow down, much less stop, your desire to seek out wonders, adventures, or anything that makes you grow. So bear that pain. I personally started to enjoy that sweet sorrow, because it reminds me that I had wonderful parents that I’m still say thanks to daily. They weren’t perfect, in fact, they were seriously flawed–and so am I. But I still honor them daily because they gave their best. As I am to my children. As your dad did to you. And as you will to yours.
Thank you so very much for the kind words and encouragement, Dean. I truly appreciate your comment.
A beautiful story, Emily. I lost my wife in October 2020. Like you, my grief took me to the road searching answers. My dog and I took my wife’s spirit on a 4-month road trip. We visited all 50 states, camping in the wilderness along much of the way. It was a time of spiritual healing. I pray that you healed as well. I know you weren’t alone on your adventure. Thank you for sharing. It made my heart smile. May God bless you richly.