HexaTrek Tales Part 1: Rain, Uncertainty, and A Thousand Shades of Green

The thunder rumbles in my chest. The sky is putting on a magnificent light show tonight – so bright I can watch through the roof of my tent. 

It’s 2AM, I’m camping alone in a foreign country, water is pooling in my tent, and I’m pretty damn scared. There wasn’t supposed to be a storm tonight. But alas, things never go the way they’re ‘supposed to’ when you’re walking across a country. That’s what’s so terrifying about it. That’s what’s so beautiful about it. 

I’ve started walking across France. 

The key word here is ‘started’. I have no intention to walk across all of France. In fact, I have no intention at all regarding time or distance. I might walk for two weeks or a month or three or go all the way to dip my feet in the Atlantic Ocean at Hendaye. 

I’ve never been so flexible with an endeavor. Usually, I commit to a challenge and stop at very little to get there. This alternative way of being is freeing in many ways. I know that at any time, I could stop to spend a week in a random village I like, do a four-day sidequest to climb some mountain, or just decide that I’ve had enough and book a one-way ticket to Morocco.

The flexibility is taxing in other ways. I don’t know where I’ll be in a month. I don’t know whether to get excited about walking through the Pyrenees. I don’t know how I’ll know when to stop. 

So if I don’t know how long I’m ambling along the HexaTrek for, why am I even doing it? 

My best attempt at summarizing this is rather dissatisfying to most people – it just feels like the right thing to do at this point in time. This, of course, sweeps over the hundred and one reasons for why that’s the case. Here are some of them:

It’s deeply satisfying to carry everything I have on my back.

When walking, my beliefs about what I want and need get completely rearranged. The standard for everything lowers. I love that. 

I like being dirty. I like finding leaves in my hair. I like learning how to move with different terrain. I like saying hello to the animals. I like looking at the moss. I like getting to a town and feeling out of place. I like feeling at home in nature. 

I wanted to go to France, and I wanted to speak French. 

Falling asleep on the earth in the afternoon sun is probably the most content I ever feel. 

Hiking takes me to villages, places, and people I’d never otherwise cross paths with. 

This lifestyle encompasses an extreme variety and depth of experiences. The highest of highs, the lowest of lows, and the most random encounters you can imagine. The number of stories I could tell about a single day is overwhelming. 

The HexaTrek is in its infancy, with 2022 being its inaugural year. I thought it would be pretty special to experience a trail in those early years, growing pains and all. 

There are some pretty magical places on earth. My feet are a good vehicle for seeing those places. 

I fell in love with long-distance hiking when I did the PCT in 2023. I knew the HexaTrek would be a different beast entirely in terms of language, culture, terrain, people, hardships, and learnings. I wanted to uncover those differences.

I’m now two weeks and 350 kilometres in. What’s it been like?

Honestly, it’s been pretty hard. It’s rained every day but one. I quickly realized my tent had some major leaks and staged a grand tent repair (seems successful so far). I’ve discovered that ticks really do exist, and so does tick paranoia. I’ve been very low on food at times (due to poor planning), and very hungry. I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time scouring labels in supermarkets, searching for the vegan foods that can sustain me in the land of cheeses and cured meats. My knees have hurt bad enough that I’ve wondered whether I’ll have a choice about when to stop this walk. I’ve discovered that it’s much harder (and more tiring) to connect with people in a language that’s not your first. At times, I’ve felt lonely and tired and cold and wet and wondered why I’m putting myself through this when I could be learning to surf in Portugal.

To be honest, part of this hardship has been self-imposed. 

Part of my intention with this journey is to see what I can experience and where my mind can go under different conditions. This has led to certain choices. One, for example, has been to not listen to anything while walking for at least the first two weeks. No music, no podcasts, and – due to the lack of people – mostly no talking during my days. I’ve also been trying to spend at least half the day walking mindfully – if my mind starts wandering away, I’ll call it back to where I am. Spending a couple weeks in a Zen monastery before starting the hike has helped me a little with this. Still, it’s very effortful, difficult, and means there’s little to distract me from any negative thoughts or emotions that arise. I just walk with them a while until they decide to take a different path.

And, of course, it’s also been incredibly rewarding. 

I was walking on trail the other morning when I started really seeing where I was. Lush forest, a thousand shades of green, a blanket of moss and lichen, all speckled by raindrops that glittered in the morning light. For days, I’d been walking through rain. I’d started to dread the sound of pattering on the canopy above – bringing wet feet, cold skin, and heavier gear. That morning, however, I realized that while the rain brought difficulty, it also created the green wonderland I adored. Rain is what enhances the richness and color of life. There’s a profound analogy in there that’s stuck with me since.  

I’ve been learning many other things on this trail, even in the short time I’ve been here. I’m starting to realize that anything can be a lesson, reminder, or sign, if you’re looking closely enough. The pain in my knees reminds me to take it slowly, and loosen my grip on the seductive idea of ‘making miles’. The fear of ticks tells me to notice how the landscape changes and when the grass gets longer. The many mistakes I make in French encourages me to laugh at myself and get comfortable with sounding stupid.

It’s also been interesting to pay closer attention to my mind these past weeks. With little to distract me, the main thing I notice is how temporary everything is – the landscape, the cravings, the thoughts, the emotions. It’s all there in the moment, and then it’s not. That’s a really scary, confusing, and freeing idea to come to grips with. 

Aside from appreciating the difficulty of this hike and learning various profound-sounding lessons, there have also just been many moments of ease, awe, and happiness. I’ve walked through quaint French villages, thriving forests, and magical mist. I’ve seen vast mountain views and deep blue lakes and sprawling countryside. I’ve started having dreams and laughing and connecting in French. I’ve talked with the local people in towns about their lives and the area. I walked with one 87-year-old woman for twenty minutes, who teared up when we said goodbye because she appreciated the company so much. I’ve experienced the randomness that I adore about thru-hiking: from getting chased by a pheasant to sleeping under a ski lodge entrance to asking restaurants if I can just order bread for a meal to getting shocked by an electric fence while trying to escape a cow paddock. 

It’s been hard, it’s been beautiful, and I don’t wish I was anywhere else.

I’m halfway through this first section of the HexaTrek, and an unknown percentage through my own hike. There are so many uncertainties right now, and sometimes it’s nice to focus on what is certain. I know that it’s raining right now. I know that I’ll sleep inside tonight. I know that I have enough food for dinner. I know that nothing will go as it’s ‘supposed to’ on this journey. I know that’s exactly why I’ll love it.