To Choose

Why do we do hard things? I asked myself over and over again as I took another step. I was walking kind of far, so there were lots of steps to contemplate that question.

I was attempting to walk 500 miles from the Utah to Phoenix along the Arizona Trail. I knew why I wanted to walk; I loved living outside and needed solitude after a hard summer. Additionally, I was fascinated, the Southwest is a foreign land to me. I imagined a vast landscape of warm earth tones decorated with mountains, canyons, deserts and endless starry nights.

Arizona was once an ocean swimming with prehistoric life. Its dramatic landscape suggests its ancient history. I imaged aquatic dinosaur ghosts of the primeval ocean haunting the land. I was curious to what if felt like to be immersed in that land. Where curiosity flows my energy goes.

The desert proved to be a land of extremes. As it tested my grit, I would remind myself that I choose this. Soon a heavy question would follow; why do I choose to do hard things? Preparing a long trek and not expecting it to be hard is absolutely delusional. This was a deliberate choice to walk 20 miles a day, no doubt suffering from painful blisters, achy muscles, relentlessly hot sun, stifling cold nights and whatever else Mother Nature decides.

I felt exposed, vulnerable and small. I was choosing to be subject to Her will, humbled by Her greatness and it was hard. However difficult to endure, life felt so much simpler. Every day I worked hard to satisfy three basic needs: food, shelter and water. Nothing else mattered. With every step the emotional weight I had been shouldering all summer started to slip away. Replaced with the weight of my pack, my shoulders only held what I needed: a week’s worth of food, a day's worth of water and my shelter.

I backpack to remind myself how simple life is. I backpack to find solitude in Nature. I backpack to push my physical and mental limits. This trek was satisfying those needs and pushing my limits. After two weeks and 157 miles my journal read:

“My blisters are unbelievably angry. With this persistent desert dust making its way into everything, I have to be very careful of infection. Being dirty never bothered me, but now, it brings me stress. If I walk for more than five miles without rest my toes become so swollen they feel like bursting. Then today, when elevated my feet during a break, a deep pain throbbed in rhythm with my pulse. What once gave me relief now provokes immense discomfort. On a positive note, at least my period cramps are no longer plaguing me... Hopefully tomorrow is better.”

The 120 mile stretch between the Grand Canyons' south rim to Flagstaff was relentlessly challenging. I left from the Grand Canyon with some bursitis in my Achilles, however painful, it did not match the discomfort from blisters that grew to the size of pepperoni. The icing on the cake was my period. Cramps and excessive bleeding were a huge morale kill. I was miserable.

I read somewhere that smiling can induce more pleasure in the brain than chocolate. I tested this by forcing a smile on my face. For the next few miles I felt grateful to be alone, because I knew I looked crazed. I was desperate to feel the slightest bit better. I told myself if the fake smile technique did not work, I would try some chocolate. Eventually, I dug into my chocolate rations and felt much better.

This section on the Colorado Plateau is flat, windy and boring. The forests were scarce so there was little shade. Flat open terrain meant unrelenting wind. One day I observed heavy smoke a few miles Southwest of me. I was sure it was a wildfire when smoke shrouded the sky, and everything gained a hue of red. It was beautiful in a bleak apocalyptic way. I hiked on, fearing it would burn its way to me if the wind did not subside. The trail was leading Southeast, and I planned to hike hard to put a comfortable buffer between me and that smoke. By evening, I was relieved that the smoke was behind me.

On one afternoon, dark clouds moved quickly overhead. Soon after thunder and lightning threatened my peace. I feared a lightning strike being at high elevation. Lightning in the high desert is a recipe for wildfire. I had already hiked through a burn scar where I observed a tree that was struck by lightning. This only enforced my unease.

I occupied my thoughts by planning potential escape routes and intently studying maps and the terrain as I moved South. That night I ended up camping in an area that had already been burned over by wildfire. The smell of charred forest comforted me, I knew if there was a fire then it wouldn’t threaten me here.

My hypervigilance of wildfire came from my service in Americorps National Civilian Community Corps. Myself and a team of young adults were trained and certified as Wildland Firefighters. We served our time fighting fire in the high desert of Modoc National Forest of Northern California.

The year before my service someone was killed on duty from wildfire. As a result, training that year was not taken lightly. I was taught about unstable atmospheric conditions that could pose risk in remote wilderness. I learned about reading weather patterns so that you can understand fire behavior. Most importantly, I learned what terrain to avoid and what areas could be safe if you found yourself in a bad situation.

I had no idea what I learned 8 years ago in Americorps would be useful to me now as I trekked through Arizona. Many times through that section I silently thanked my teachers. I felt deeply grateful I had that experience and knowledge to lean on.

Regardless, the mental strain and physical pain through that section was wearing me down. I would tell myself that I choose this. Then I would wonder, why? Why did I choose this knowing it would be hard. Why do I choose to do hard things?

My mother taught me as I grew up that I should not quit something because it is hard. The first time I truly experienced that lesson was as a young adult during my service in Americorps. Year after year I have found a way to raise that threshold.

In 2022, during a backpacking trip in the Alaska Range, a mentor describe my energy as inextinguishable. It was in the Alaskan Tundra where, for the first time, I felt the heat of my own flame. It was after that trip that I realized tenacity fuels my life force.

Personally, for me to exist in this world I need to feed that fire inside. I have come to learn that following my curiosity leads me to adventure. I understand there is no adventure without some adversity. To preserve from adversity stokes my fire. I do hard things because if I don’t, my world would be cold and dark.