Perplexed looks. Awkward silences. Concerned faces. Sheepish smiles.
These were some of the immediate reactions I got after telling my loved ones that I wanted to hike a long-distance trail. Partly to ease their worries and partly to justify my decision, I would double down on my intentions with excited steadfastness. Then would come the questions.
“Are you really hiking by yourself?”
“What are you doing about food?”
“Aren’t you concerned about bears?”
I answered each as best I could, but still, most conversations ended unenthusiastically and with a cloud of doubt in the air. The tension between my aspirations and the expectations of those close to me was palpable.
I always knew that my decision to hike a long-distance trail was a little unorthodox, so I wasn’t surprised by the reactions the news garnered. Nevertheless, the confused looks, curious questions, and well-intentioned-but-mostly-unhelpful advice highlighted just how distinctly my pursuit differed from the preconceptions both my immediate social circle and society at large had about my life. But I wasn’t going to let their opinions stop me.
For years, I felt the draw to hike a long trail deep in my bones. What began as a passing thought gradually but steadily embedded its way into my soul. Soon, it became less of a farfetched dream and more of an inevitable reality. I had no choice but to listen to the yearning that beckoned me to go, go, GO on this overland journey. Because for me, it was a chance to immerse myself in the natural world. An excuse to have a grand adventure. A test of my will in the face of adversity. And a concrete way for me to take ownership of my life, even if others didn’t understand it. So, in August 2020, I left the Happy Isles trailhead in Yosemite Valley and began my thru-hike of the John Muir Trail.
I was prepared for the physical challenge, but the mental burden was initially crushing. The first afternoon, a thunderstorm – my biggest fear – brewed in the distance, paralyzing me for hours as I wavered between continuing forward and meeting potential danger or wasting precious time and energy backtracking. Without a hiking partner, I felt pangs of loneliness, fear, and inadequacy. Life on trail was completely different from back home and I longed for the comforts I often took for granted. In my weakest moments, I could feel the doubt and worries of my loved ones creep into my mind.
But I kept going. Soon, the discomforts of living out of a backpack felt less burdensome and more a natural part of my day. I met fellow thru-hikers and started to find community. As I melted into my new nomadic life, the apprehensions of those back home were slowly replaced with alpine sunsets, stoic mountains, and crystal-clear lakes. Days became simpler, my mind clearer. And, 211 miles and 17 days after starting my journey, I stood atop Mt. Whitney beaming with pride, knowing that I had just completed my thru-hike of the John Muir Trail.
It’s been nearly four years since this adventure, but I still think about it often. The sheer beauty of the Sierra Nevada Mountains is etched permanently in my mind. Pristine meadows and striking spires and bubbling waterfalls and untouched forests and the warm alpenglow. I also won’t forget how this Eden-like landscape humbled me. A badly sprained ankle almost broke me mentally and threatened to end my hike prematurely. But with each day in the backcountry, I gained a newfound level of confidence, both in my outdoor skills and in myself. All because, in the very beginning, I made the simple and decisive decision to take the risk and commit.
It’s in this same spirit that I founded GoForth. To boldly pursue a dream that others won’t fully understand. To build a career and a life on my terms that I know I’ll be proud of. And ultimately, to share all that I’ve learned to help inspire and guide others to take their first steps into the unknown.
There’s a comfort to staying within expectations. But real growth, real beauty, real life can only begin once you listen to what makes your heart sing.
What song are you hearing?
