Part Seven: The Art of Letting Go
“So Lennon, why do you hike?”
I could see the reflection of the raging flames in his circular-shaped glasses. For a few seconds, he stayed quiet, collecting his thoughts, his gaze lost in the crackling campfire.
“I think I just feel good.” His southern accent broke the silence. “I like thru-hiking because I feel good about what I’m doing every day. There is a goal every single day, and little rewards scattered along the trail as well.”
I. Embrace The Suck
The climbs were steep, the weather hot and stifling. Bugs, horseflies, and mosquitoes were everywhere. Getting water, catching a break, or just enjoying camp was a daring task. Every morning, I woke up to the incessant buzzing of mosquitoes clinging to the mesh of my tent, just waiting for me to step out. Every night, the relentless, intense itching of their bites kept me awake. No relief, no escape. I made a deal with myself: as soon as the worst of the bugs would be behind me, I’d savor every sunrise, every sunset, and every view.
My mind was weary, and the following days kept testing my resiliency. I snapped my one trekking pole as it got stuck between two rocks. Later, I scratched my neck, only to find a tick crawling there. The next day, a yellow jacket stung me just below my lip, swelling up instantly. Despite these challenges, I continued moving forward, the only way possible. Being with my trail family made all the difference. In the struggle, we kept each other’s spirits up—laughing through the misadventures and finding humor even in the worst moments.
Tuesday, July 16th
Driven by our desire to reach town early, we ventured into burn scars. Suddenly, a loud rumbling sound caught our attention, shaking the ground we walked on. In the distance, a cloud of dust rose above the burnt trees. “Is that a landslide?” one of us asked. “No, look! It’s a herd of elk!” The group of Cervids has likely heard us and ran away, while we looked at them with admiration.
After a quick break near a cabin, we hit the trail again—this time on a dirt road. “Lennon” and I soon found ourselves alone ahead of the group. As we walked, he began to share a part of his story. His voice was steady, but there was a weight in the air. He talked about his family, about how the unfair claws of mental illness had clung to his siblings, and how a year ago, he had lost his brother to them. His words hang heavy between us. He paused, the crunchy sound of our footsteps filling the silence. “Sorry for killing the mood,” he then added. We both started laughing. This was our way of dealing with the heavy stuff life threw at you. I felt the depth of his loss, but there was no apology needed for that. At that moment, something shifted. We connected in a way that only shared pain could create—something raw, real, and unspoken. Something that despite the sadness it held, was beautiful nevertheless.
We made it to the highway and got picked up by Max, a former PCT thru-hiker and now trail-angel. Max was the kind of person who made you believe in the goodness of strangers—he offered to leave our gear at his real estate office, bought us soap, towels, and even insisted we camp on a quiet, empty field nearby. His kindness was like a balm to my weary soul. It was the kind of gesture that gave your spirit a lift when you’d been running on empty.
That night, I left my rain fly open. I liked to observe the fading light of the sunset and let the night settle around me slowly. In the middle of the night, I’d then wake up to the sight of a million stars above me.
II. Reflections
Friday, July 19th
That morning, I left our makeshift campsite early. The need to walk alone, to face my thoughts head-on, had become urgent over the past few days. There was something within me, some discomfort I couldn’t quite name. As I stepped out of the forest and onto higher ground, I searched for answers—anything that could explain not just what I was feeling, but why.
A month had passed since the start of this journey. A difficult, challenging, eventful month. Part of me didn’t want to admit it, by fear of appearing ungrateful, but I hadn’t been enjoying the trail. I felt disconnected from it. I wasn’t stopping to listen to the birds, smell the plants, or look at the small things along the path. I didn’t feel inspired. My writing felt flat, my pictures lifeless. I hadn’t been taking the time to appreciate the beauty around me. Somehow, I had forgotten how to. From dawn to dusk, I walked with my head down, eyes fixed on the ground, trying to fill the emptiness in my mind with the sound of my footsteps. I kept asking myself: What’s my why? Why am I on this trail? Why am I walking at all? On the PCT, I had a clear reason—I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. And I did. But now, there was nothing left to prove. So, what was pushing me to get back out here? Would I figure it out along the way? I hoped I would.
It felt like the trail and I were in a silent standoff, each of us resentful of the other. I blamed it for being different from the PCT, for not meeting the expectations I had created in my head. The trail, in turn, blamed me for comparing it to something else, for not allowing it to show me its own beauty, its own uniqueness. It was as if neither of us was willing to give the other a fair chance.
Then, as I reached the top of a mountain, the landscape opened up before me—mountains and valleys stretching out in every direction. The rising sun bathed the pine trees in a golden glow, and a cool breeze brushed against my skin. My gaze wandered into the distance, and in that moment, words came easily.
It hit me then—what had been missing. The enchantment, the magic I had felt on the PCT, wasn’t absent here; it was simply that I hadn’t been paying attention. I hadn’t been listening. I hadn’t been looking. I had been so focused on what was ahead that I was missing all the beauty unfolding right in front of me. Where had gone the wonder I once felt—the childlike awe that saw beauty in everything, not weighed down by the past or the future? I knew it was still there. I just had to wake it up.
I sat on a rock for a few minutes, lost in contemplation. That was when I realized my mistake. Without even knowing it, I had come into this journey with expectations. I had set up a script in my mind, believing the experience should unfold in a certain way. But nature can’t be scripted. It does what it wants, unapologetically. And that’s where its beauty lies.
I needed to reset my mind, to return to a place of curiosity and wonder. To approach the trail with an open heart, free from preconceived notions.
*Long exhale*
It was as if a weight had lifted from my shoulders, even though my backpack was still heavy. I had found the answer. And just like that, the trail seemed to find me in return.
Now, I don’t believe in divine signs, and I’m not one to read too much into coincidence. I’ve tried that before, and it never served me well. But I’ll admit, after this small but profound shift in my mindset, things started to change. I began to see and feel things again. Over the next few days, I encountered more wildlife than I had in the entire month before. I had my first bear sighting. The landscape began to reveal its beauty. Inspiration returned.
III. The Wolf
I left the campsite early this morning, driven by the urge to reach town as quickly as possible and escape the mosquitoes that had descended upon us at dawn. The orange glow of the rising sun filtered through the trees as I hurried along the winding path. Soon, the roar of chainsaws echoed through the air, growing louder and louder. Before I knew it, I stumbled into what felt like a war zone. Dozens of workers were chopping trees left and right, the trail cluttered with fallen branches and trunks, turning it into an obstacle course. One man spotted me and motioned to his friend, signaling me to be careful as I picked my way carefully through the chaos, trying to stay visible.
Once past the scene, I continued walking along the border between Idaho and Montana, marked by a fence of thick wooden logs or, at times, just a lone metal tube sticking out of the ground. The trail led me out of the forest and onto the Great Plains of Montana. The landscape stretched before me—rolling yellow hills, dotted with sagebrush and dry grasses, stretching infinitely toward the horizon. Despite the haze from nearby fires, the beauty of the scene was undeniable.
As I walked deeper into this vast, golden expanse, something suddenly caught my eye ahead. I stopped, breathless. It moved fast, running and jumping in and out of the sagebrush—its grey and white fur striking against the yellow-green of the landscape. I had dreamed of seeing one in the wild but never imagined the moment would come. A gray wolf.
The beast sprinted across the trail and disappeared over the hill as quickly as it had appeared. It didn’t care about me. It didn’t need to. The whole encounter lasted just seconds—seconds that felt like a waking dream. I didn’t even have time to grab my camera, but it didn’t matter. I had captured it in my mind, and that was enough. Beautiful things didn’t seek our attention—they revealed themselves only when they chose, like a fleeting glimpse of something unreachable, reminding us that they weren’t just dreams and figments of our imagination. Beauty existed, but it couldn’t be owned nor held. It was only up to us to see it.
“A wolf…” I kept repeating in my head. “I just saw a wolf.” A tear escaped from my eye and gently rolled down my cheek. I reached the paved road still in awe, a smile creeping onto my face. Disbelief washed over me as I sat on the ground, my eyes lost in the vastness of the plains standing ahead of me. I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for what had just happened.
I read somewhere that hiking teaches us the art of letting go— of overthinking, of expectations, of the noise of the world. It created space for peace and clarity. I don’t usually believe in signs, but in that moment, a part of me did. Part of me listened. The trail had given me a path—not the one marked in front of me, not the rugged, sandy trail I had been walking. No, it gave me a path that could only be felt, not seen. And in that moment, I knew I was finally back on the right path.
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Comments 1
As more time passes, I’m better able to appreciate how special this time was in my life – moreso than while I was experiencing it even. Y’all will forever be part of what I hold onto as proof that there is good and good people in this world.
I hope the closing paragraph makes it into the doc – just really lovely prose. Hopefully you hire a narrator this time so viewers can actually understand the words though.