Tag: new years resolution

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Mount LeConte: Hiking the Most Iconic Trail in the Smokies

When I hiked to the top of Mount LeConte via the Alum Cave trail in December, I achieved a milestone just as meaningful as completing the third iteration of my New Year’s resolution to explore a new trail every month. I feel immensely grateful for and humbled by the fortune I’ve had, to have been able to stick with this commitment for 36 straight months, and I’ve grown so much along the way, as a hiker and as a human. Every month, the new trail itself is a meaningful first, but I’ve accomplished other bucket list items that I never could have imagined possible when I started this journey. It took me all year to build up the courage, but with this grand finale hike of 2020, I crossed another milestone off my list. The night before my hike, for the first time ever, I camped alone.

views from the trail to the top of Mount LeConte via Alum Cave trailhead

I won’t spend too much time discussing the details of my first solo camping experience, but I’ll share a few key takeaways, in case anyone reading this is considering camping alone for the first time too. I’m certainly not an expert camper, as you’ll soon realize, which is why I rigorously vetted my campground options a couple of months in advance of the hike. I chose Greenbrier, a developed campground on the outskirts of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, with amenities like electricity and indoor plumbing, to help me ease into the experience of sleeping alone in a tent. Familiar comforts can provide a sense of security that soothes the inevitable feelings of vulnerability when you’re trying something new for the first time, especially when you’re doing it alone. Before my trip, I practiced the things I’d need to do alone at the campground, like assembling my tent and building a fire. I received this advice from a much more experienced member of my Middle Tennessee hiking community, and it’s proven to be one of the best pieces of camping advice I’ve ever heard. Doing something as a part of a group and doing the same thing alone can be very different experiences, and you need to be really confident in your ability to produce shelter and warmth on your own before you’re in a situation that requires it.

My tent assembly practice paid off, but I really should have invested more time and effort into my fire building skills. Outside of the Pacific Northwest, nowhere in the country receives more rain than the Smokies, which presents a real challenge for aspiring fire builders. I’d practiced building and maintaining a fire in the iron fire pit in my backyard in Nashville, but this experience didn’t exactly translate into success when trying to build a fire in a forest that stays damp 350 days a year. So, to make a long story short, I struggled to produce a meaningful fire and may or may not have taken some toilet paper from the campground bathroom to use as fire starter when my logs couldn’t sustain the flame. While one hand was feeding stolen toilet paper to my lackluster fire, the other was shoveling pasta salad into my mouth because I forgot to bring eating utensils. Camping alone certainly has its learning curves.

low quality tent selfie from a high quality (ish) first attempt at solo camping

Despite these obstacles and sub-freezing temperatures, I slept rather comfortably in my tent, tucked into my sleeping bag with my Grand Canyon camping blanket on top for an added layer of warmth (and security, if we’re being honest). I woke up feeling really optimistic about the hike ahead of me, undoubtedly fueled by the confidence of surviving my first night alone in the semi-wild. After packing up my camping gear, I headed off to the Alum Cave trailhead, located about 30 minutes away from the campground. Although there wasn’t snow on the ground where I camped, I knew there’d be snow on higher ground as I ascended the trail. I’d called the ranger station the previous day to ask about trail conditions (always a good idea when hiking a new trail, especially if you’ll be hiking alone) and learned that snow and ice covered the upper sections of the trail, but not enough to require additional gear like microspikes or an ice axe. This was good news, because I’d otherwise have had to call an audible and find a new trail. I don’t have enough experience hiking in true winter conditions to feel safe doing it alone, not yet anyways.

dreamy glimpses of the Smoky Mountains through the canopy of the evergreen forest

Unlike most other national parks, Great Smoky Mountains doesn’t charge an admission fee. I’d like to think that the reason for this has its roots in some rare act of altruism by the federal government, but that’s not exactly why admission to the Smokies will probably always remain free. I could create an entirely separate blog post on the pros and cons of free admission to America’s most-visited national park, but for now, I’ll link this article that covers the basics. Like many national parks, regardless of whether or not they charge admission, Great Smoky Mountains relies heavily on funding and volunteer efforts supplied by non-profit organizations. If you want to get involved, this list serves as a great resource, although there are plenty of other wonderful organizations that support this truly incredible park.

The hike to the summit of Mount LeConte from the Alum Cave trailhead traverses 11 miles roundtrip and includes nearly 3,000 feet of elevation gain. Despite the strenuous nature of the trail, it’s an incredibly popular one, and for good reason. If you search the AllTrails database for the best trails in the United States, this one currently holds the sixth place ranking. AllTrails rankings should be taken with a big chunk of salt, for the record, but they can be a telling indicator of the amount of foot traffic you’ll encounter. I’d intentionally waited to hike this trail until I could do it on a weekday in winter, hoping to avoid the congestion I’ve read about. I still saw dozens of other hikers, but I think my decision paid off because the trail never felt crowded. Also, I loved seeing the splendor of the Smokies covered in snow, but more on that later.

I had no trouble finding a parking spot at the trailhead at 8:00 AM on a frigid Friday in the middle of December. I’ve heard horror stories of cars parked along the road for a mile in either direction on weekends during warmer months, so go very early if you don’t go when it’s very cold. A half-empty trailhead parking lot in the Smokies should never be taken for granted though, so I embarked on my hike feeling too exuberant to be cold. The lower portion of the trail moves through a classically beautiful Smoky Mountains landscape of big trees and rushing water. In winter, patches of iridescent white adorn the numerous nooks and crannies that remain permanently shaded by the immense cover of the forest in winter. Icicles embellish the rocky outcroppings along the rugged mountain landscape. I absolutely adore hiking alone in winter in Tennessee. The vegetation that’s so thick in warmer months, despite its lush green beauty, often obscures dangers I don’t want to face by myself, like bears or copperheads, so I find comfort in the sparse and barren landscape of winter. God knew what He was doing when he decided which species would hibernate, and that’s a blessing worth counting twice.

the creek beside the lower section of the trail

The trail meanders across a primitive wooden bridge over a creek and up a spiraling path through the rock face of the mountain before it continues to climb along a more exposed ridge that offers stunning views of the rolling peaks of the Smokies. After two or so miles, the trail arrives at Alum Cave Bluff, which feels a lot more like a bluff than a cave. The towering rocky overhang provides a concave shelter with gorgeous views across the mountains. There’s plenty of space to accommodate social distancing on a quiet day, which I love because I always want at least six feet between myself and other hikers on the trail, and that has nothing to do with the pandemic. I stopped here for a snack and some water before tackling the next two-mile section, which proved to be the steepest part of the hike to the top of the mountain. As I climbed, the trail narrowed and the views expanded. Also, the patches of snow and ice on the trail that had been pretty sparse between the trailhead and Alum Cave Bluff became much more frequent and eventually swallowed the trail entirely. For the last couple of miles before the summit, I hiked carefully across a slick white blanket, relying heavily on the cables drilled into the mountainside on narrow and exposed sections to avoid slipping into the beautiful void of the pristine winter wonderland below.

Alum Cave Bluff

I so rarely get to hike through true winter conditions in my home state, and I can’t overstate the joy of seeing a landscape that resembles a tropical rainforest for most of the year under a smooth layer of white. It’s an absolutely surreal experience, and the views on the upper portion of the trail are widely considered to be some of the best in the entire park, in any season. About a mile from the true summit of Mount LeConte, the trail rambles back into the cover of the woods as the elevation gain tapers off. The fragments of sunlight that penetrated the shroud of the forest created a glitter-like effect on the snow covered trail, and I could have turned around there and been satisfied with this dazzling end to a truly special hike. It’s a rare moment on a trail that feels so exhilarating that pressing on almost feels risky and makes you question whether or not the allure of the unknown is worth the effort when the hike has already exceeded your expectations. I rolled the dice and trudged onward, too intrigued by the opportunity to see the illustrious LeConte Lodge to turn back yet.

This primitive lodge near the summit of Mount LeConte accepts reservations through a lottery system. Guests can only reach the lodge by foot, and those seeking a coveted reservation must enter the lottery fifteen months in advance. LeConte Lodge is a community of rugged cabins surrounding a simple dining hall, and luxuries like electricity and showers aren’t available at this famed mountaintop oasis. They’ve got wine though, so keep that in mind on the long hike to the top if you’re lucky enough to secure a reservation. The lodge was closed when I hiked Mount LeConte, maybe due to COVID or maybe due to winter conditions, but spending a night or two here will remain at the top of my Smoky Mountains bucket list until I’m lucky enough to win the reservation lottery.

LeConte Lodge

Mount LeConte’s true summit lies half a mile beyond the lodge. To my surprise, the summit didn’t offer the expansive views that I’d expected of this famous peak. Upon reaching the true summit, I encountered an alcove ensconced by trees, and in the center, there’s a massive cairn that invites hikers to add a stone to contribute to the height of the mountain. This established tradition doesn’t really make the mountain taller, but it does instill a sense of pride and loyalty amongst those who have visited this sacred place. Adding a stone signifies a dedication to the preservation of the mountain and a hope that future generations will have the same opportunity to add to its story.

If you don’t take a summit selfie, can you really say you made it to the top?

Heading back towards the lodge, I noticed a spur trail I hadn’t seen on the hike in. Enticingly named “Cliff Tops”, this spur seemed like a route worth exploring before heading back down the mountain. Until this point, I felt somewhat bewildered by the fact that the views at LeConte Lodge and the true summit weren’t nearly as spectacular as what I’d seen along the trail on the way up. Then I reached Cliff Tops. Less than half a mile from the spur at LeConte Lodge, this tangental journey is an absolute must for anyone who’s already hiked that far up the mountain. The view from Cliff Tops in winter is one of the most breathtaking sights I’ve seen on any hike, and in that moment, I felt so grateful to live in a state that hosts this kind of raw beauty that’s often unfairly overshadowed by bigger mountains out west. It feels so intimate, to experience a place like this in a season when it’s so rarely visited. The Smokies certainly aren’t a secret to anyone, but I think the heavy foot traffic depreciates its reputation within national and global communities of hiking enthusiasts. It’s sad, because this place has so much more to offer than most people give it credit for, but at the same time, I get it. Nobody goes into the wild in search of civilization.

I guess the point I’m trying to make is that seasons are short and time is powerful, in nature among other things. The definition of growth is expansion into new territory, whether that uncharted space is physical or just a change of perspective. That’s why, after 36 months (and counting, because eight months have passed since this Mount LeConte hike that I’m just now getting around to writing about, oops…), I’m still committed to my 2018 New Year’s resolution to hike a previously unexplored trail every month. It’s a familiar concept at this point, but the adventure changes and evolves with every new hike. Additionally, no two hikes along a single trail are really ever the same. Time and experience shape the journey in a gloriously serendipitous way that thrives on momentum. I’ll never be able to explore every trail on my bucket list, and that’s not the point. I’m just grateful for the opportunity to chase a destination that I hope I never reach.

breathtaking views from Cliff Tops
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Georgia Day Hikes: Cloudland Canyon State Park

In January of 2020, when I began the third iteration of my New Year’s Resolution to explore a new hiking trail every month, I never thought I’d have to factor a global pandemic into my plans. The truth is that we’ve all experienced interruptions to our lives and routines due to COVID-19, and we’re all struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy despite these (cue the trendiest phrase of 2020) unprecedented times. Over the past few months, it’s been difficult to prioritize personal goals and comforts while our global community battles a health crisis that requires all hands on deck. Time passes like a fly through molasses these days, which has given me ample opportunity to think about balance. I’ve questioned my role in protecting the health and well-being of others and felt the overwhelming absence of previously mundane activities like going to the gym or making small talk in the elevator with other people who work in my office building. We all miss the routines we took for granted when the year began, and as a result, we’re desperate to find ways to enjoy the things we loved, only in a new format that’s more appropriate for the world we’re living in right now.

views of the beautiful Cloudland Canyon from the West Rim Loop trailhead

Nature is my greatest source of comfort and vitality. Hiking a new trail every month means more to me than maintaining a sense of normalcy, and despite the very abnormal current circumstances, I wanted to find a way to keep my routine alive, legally and with minimal risk to myself or others. Towards the end of March, Tennessee and most other states closed their parks indefinitely, and distant travel wasn’t a realistic or responsible alternative. Through extensive research, I learned that Georgia’s state parks remained open in April, at limited capacity and with an increase in park ranger presence to manage social distancing on popular trails. I carefully considered the potential risks of hiking during a pandemic. Ultimately, I concluded that by holding myself accountable and trusting the park rangers, I wouldn’t have to sacrifice my favorite routine just yet.

enjoying the views from above the rim, dreaming of the views below the trees

This led me to Cloudland Canyon State Park, a magnificent place a few miles south of the border between Tennessee and Georgia, close to Chattanooga and about two and a half hours southeast of Nashville. Under normal circumstances, I rule out day hikes (when departing from and returning to Nashville in the same day) that require more time in the car than time on the trail. However, I think we can all agree that 2020 has wholeheartedly failed to provide us with normal circumstances. Also, I had plenty of time to kill and a good friend that I hadn’t seen in a while who volunteered to chase waterfalls and overlooks with me at a park that’s been on my bucket list for a while.

Cameron and I left Nashville early, hoping to beat the crowds to the popular waterfall trail segment off the West Rim Loop Trail at Cloudland Canyon State Park. Prior to visiting, I’d read that rangers were restricting access to the trails to the bottom of Cherokee and Hemlock Falls to ten parties at a time. I called the ranger station a few days before our hike to ask for advice on how early we should arrive and what to expect from a COVID management standpoint (Should we wear masks? Are the bathrooms open?) Admittedly, I call the local ranger station before most of my remote hikes, regardless of whether I’ve been there or not, to check on trail conditions. I know it’s overly cautious and nerdy, but I also hike by myself and/or on unfamiliar and lightly trafficked trails often. Calling the ranger station helps me plan my hikes and manage my expectations. Also, my mom feels more comfortable with my adventures when I can say in advance, “It’s fine, the park ranger said so”.

Cherokee Falls, stunning and well worth the journey into the canyon

We followed the advice of a park ranger named Austin and arrived early, around 9:00 AM. We parked in the shade, threw some hand sanitizer into our backpacks, and headed down the waterfall trail segment before hitting the West Rim Loop. Honestly, the waterfall segment was the most difficult part of our entire seven-mile journey, consisting of an endless sea of switchbacks and stairs that traversed the steep canyon walls surrounding Cherokee and Hemlock falls. We arrived at Cherokee Falls first, a beautiful waterfall that I’d imagine makes a great swimming hole during warmer and more carefree months. As we’d expected, a vigilant park ranger monitored the area, ensuring that each hiking party remained a safe distance from the next. Luckily, the base of Cherokee Falls offers plentiful views from many angles, which allows visitors to easily separate themselves without compromising their waterfall viewing experience.

Hemlock Falls lies less the a quarter of a mile downstream from Cherokee Falls, but the trail between the two is not a direct route. If you’ve hiked down to Cherokee Falls, you should also take the spur to Hemlock Falls. It adds about a mile roundtrip to the journey, but the scenery along the way is beautiful, and the ups and downs are great for the glutes. Hemlock Falls isn’t as visually appealing as its upstream neighbor, and there’s no direct access to the bottom. Regardless, I’d advise making the most of your time in the canyon by visiting both waterfalls. The inner canyon views are thoroughly gorgeous, and you’ll want to remember those images while you’re climbing out, to remind you that the effort was worth the journey.

the most magical place to enjoy the creek views between Cherokee and Hemlock falls

Aside from the waterfall segment, the West Rim Loop is probably the most popular trail in the park, and after hiking there during absolutely perfect weather conditions, I can understand why. The five-mile loop (measured from the access trailhead, not the beginning of the actual loop) traverses moderate terrain and majestic views overlooking the canyon below. This trail at Cloudland Canyon reminds me of my beloved trails in South Cumberland State Parkin Tennessee, because the enchanting views from above obscure layers of equally impressive scenery below, scenery that can only be appreciated by those who put in the effort to pursue it.

West Rim Loop offers easy access to multiple rocky outcroppings overlooking the canyon. Cameron and I had no trouble finding a scenic spot to break for lunch that provided plenty of social distance from the other hikers on the trail. We explored the trail at a leisurely pace, because the views were incredible and we didn’t have any other obligations. We enjoyed the time we had together, catching up on life and embracing the freedom of a day without other plans. When we returned to the trailhead, after hiking the five-mile loop and the two-mile detour to explore the waterfalls, I felt like we’d only been gone for a few minutes instead of a couple of hours. I love that feeling, the one where time stands still because the circumstances of the present outweigh the obligations to be elsewhere.

Views like this one from the West Rim Loop are plentiful along this amazing trail in northern Georgia.

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Waterfall Hikes of South Cumberland State Park: Foster Falls and Denny Cove

If you’d have asked me two years ago, I’d have said that this journey wasn’t sustainable, and that I’d eventually run out of new trails reasonably close to home. Two years later, I still feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface. I travel as often as I can, and since I began this journey, almost half of my new hikes have occurred on trails outside of Tennessee. As much as I’ve loved the trails of amazing destinations like Maine, Colorado, Utah, and California… there’s no place like home. I appreciate the breathtaking beauty of expansive mountain views, but there’s something so intimate and comfortable about the hidden waterfalls and majestic limestone bluffs of the Cumberland Plateau. If you’re looking for views that extend far and wide, Tennessee may not be for you, but if you’re looking for pristine beauty that’s buried and unpretentious, come on in. The water’s fine. And so are the caves.

The icicles surrounding Foster Falls may be too small to notice in this photo, but the views of this area in January were a rare and magnificent treat when I hiked here.

Tennessee offers no shortage of incredible waterfall hikes, and nothing influences the kind of experience you’ll have on one of these trails more than timing. I’d love to tell y’all that any time is a good time for a waterfall hike in Tennessee, but I’ve learned from experience that this isn’t necessarily true. The magic of seasonality can make one hike feel like four unique experiences, and I wholeheartedly appreciate that. Hiking to Foster Falls and Denny Cove in January reminded me so much of how my journey began two years ago, with my winter hike to Virgin Falls. If you’ve got the layers for it, I highly recommend a Tennessee waterfall hike in January. We don’t get much snow in winter in this part of the country, but temperatures fall (and stay) below freezing often enough to create magnificent icicle formations on our waterfalls. With all of this in mind, a sunny January day with sub-freezing temperatures may not be an ideal day for hiking for most people, but fortune favors the bold… or the cold, in this case.

As an added bonus, Tennessee’s popular trails don’t receive much foot traffic in January. Most of the visitors to South Cumberland State Park drive in from other parts of Tennessee, and winters in the volunteer state just aren’t consistent enough for our Southern blood to properly acclimatize. It’s a mystery to me though, because winter can still be beautiful without the presence of snow-capped peaks and frozen lakes. Snow flurries against a waterfall backdrop and high cliffs draped with thousands of sparkling icicles decorate the Cumberland Plateau in winter, and the trails (usually) remain clear of ice and other winter obstacles. It’s rare to experience conditions that offer the best of both worlds, but when the opportunity presents itself, why not take advantage of it?

Thousands of gorgeous icicles drip from the jagged cliffs along the trail to Denny Cove Waterfall in South Cumberland State Park.

It was 20 degrees with a forecast of clouds and sporadic snow snow flurries when I started my morning at the Foster Falls trailhead, named for the landmark feature at the eastern terminus of Fiery Gizzard. I hiked a western portion of Fiery Gizzard, one of Tennessee’s most alluring and popular trails, in October of 2018, and a through hiker I met on the trail told me about the idyllic brilliance of Foster Falls. I’ve wanted to visit ever since, and I’m so grateful that I had the opportunity to witness this beautiful place for the first time without anyone else around. I’ve heard that visitors flock to this waterfall in the summer months, because of the gorgeous and spacious swimming hole at the bottom of the falls. The hike to Foster Falls is relatively short and easy as well. I hiked a loop trail that runs two total miles, starting with a steep descent from the top of the falls to the swimming hole and spacious creekside areas at the bottom. From the base of the falls, the trail follows a moderate incline along the base of one of Tennessee’s most popular rock climbing walls, which was dripping with icicles and thus understandably vacant in January.

After ascending to the rim of the canyon that Foster Falls flows into, the trail continues along the edge and provides an outstanding glimpse of the waterfall from above before returning to the trailhead. Overall, the this loop offers many gorgeous views for a relatively easy hike. There’s also the option to continue hiking along the rim of the canyon on the Fiery Gizzard Trail, which extends for 12 miles in one direction before meeting its western terminus at the Grundy trailhead.

Foster Falls as viewed from an overlook on the Fiery Gizzard Trail

I’d be lying if I said it’s worth the effort to drive two hours one way for a two mile hike in January, although I thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful scenery at Foster Falls. South Cumberland State Park’s newest addition, however, is accessible from a trailhead only ten minutes down the road from Foster Falls. Denny Cove offers about four total miles of trails. It doesn’t sound like much, but this trail packs in a lot of value over a relatively short and moderate distance. A vast and beautiful cliff runs parallel to the trail on the north side, and this area is accessible to rock climbers during warmer months. In winter, however, the tree cover between the trail and the cliffs is sparse enough to provide extensive views of this gorgeous landscape. Overall, the terrain is mild but not entirely easy, and the trail ends at a glorious waterfall that isn’t visible until you’re right beside it. As the trail ascends, it inches closer to the creek that runs through the cove. As the trail approaches the waterfall, the incline increases before leading to a small open space with unobstructed views of Denny Cove Falls.

views of Denny Cove Falls on the steep section of trail that runs upward toward the base of the falls

On the return trip from Denny Cove Waterfall, I hiked the spur trail to and from a secluded overlook off the main trail. This route extends the 3-mile roundtrip hike to the falls by a mile, but the views are worth the short detour. It’s worth noting that, for the first time since I started this journey two years ago, I was entirely and blissfully alone on this previously unexplored trail. I saw a few people on the Foster Falls loop, but I didn’t see anyone on my hike through Denny Cove. This surprised me, even though the trail is relatively new and the weather was brutally cold (for Tennessee, anyways). Most people avoid hiking on days like this, but I eagerly anticipate them and hope they land on weekends when I can actually get outside to enjoy the solitude of a sub-freezing hike.

This overlook along the trail to Denny Cove Falls offers stunning views of the valley below.

It takes more than just cold weather to make a hike like this possible. Cliffs and waterfalls need rain and the resulting runoff to sprout icicles, and then the sun needs to shine for a day or two to reduce ice and slushy mud enough to make the trails navigable. The sunny days need to be bright enough to warm the ground, but the temperatures need to be low enough to keep the ice on the cliff walls from melting. Rock surfaces warm more slowly than dirt, so it takes nothing short of an act of God to create the perfect conditions for a waterfall hike adorned with icicles. It doesn’t happen often around here, but when it does, the rare opportunity to see a sight like this in Tennessee is certainly worth the extra layers.

Here’s a low quality image (iPhones don’t work well during prolonged exposure to 20 degree temperatures) of a high quality moment alone at the base of Denny Cove Waterfall.

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Climbing Colorado Fourteeners: Grays and Torreys Peaks

I believe that fear is one of life’s greatest blessings, and this mentality has significantly influenced both my adventures in the wild and my everyday life. I think of fear as an opportunity demonstrate courage, overcome challenges, and succeed at something I may have previously thought impossible. Fear presents a choice: retreat or move forward.

Grays Peak (left) and Torreys Peak (right) are Colorado’s 9th and 11th highest peaks at 14,270 ft and 14,267 ft, respectively.

Until about two and a half years ago, I didn’t think I could climb a mountain, any mountain. I was afraid of heights and exposure, but with help from some friends, I made it to the top of Old Rag Mountain (3,284 ft) in Shenandoah National Park in July of 2017. To this day, that remains one of my favorite hikes ever, and the experience played a critical role in inspiring the first iteration of my New Year’s Resolution to explore a new trail every month in 2018. Throughout the first few months of 2018, I didn’t think my hiking adventure would ever lead me to the summit of a big mountain. I was afraid of the physical impact that altitude can have on the body and didn’t think I’d ever have the strength or stamina to endure hiking at high elevations. On September 14, 2018, my thirtieth birthday, I climbed to the summit of the highest peak in the Rocky Mountains, Mount Elbert (14,439 ft). I wouldn’t have made it to the top without Andy’s help and encouragement. To show my appreciation, I promoted him from boyfriend to husband ten months later.

Until a few months ago, I didn’t think I could climb a big mountain by myself. I was afraid of the possibility that I hadn’t really conquered my fears, but had instead relied on the strength of others to carry me through them. In October, a trip to Colorado with a couple of friends (Lexi and Anne, who have joined me on several hikes over the past two years) presented me with an opportunity to find out. On a wild, and possibly wine induced, impulse a couple of weeks before the trip, I changed my return flight to allow an extra day in Colorado after my friends planned to fly back to Nashville. I didn’t know if I was ready to climb a fourteener by myself, but I knew I was ready to try.

I had one day, an exceptionally tight window in October in the Rockies, due to intense wind gusts and single-digit temperatures above the tree line that signal the imminent arrival of the first big snow of the season. Also, I knew I’d need to choose from a small handful of mountains relatively close to Denver, to allow enough time for a successful summit, descent, and subsequent drive to the airport for a 9:00 PM flight back to Nashville. There weren’t many realistic options, but there was one that presented me with an opportunity to summit the highest peak on the continental divide and traverse an exposed ridge to the summit of an adjacent fourteener, all in less than ten miles out and back.

Grays and Torreys are part of the Wasatch Range and Arapaho National Forest.

Admittedly, Grays and Torreys are two of the easiest fourteeners to summit in Colorado, and very popular options due to their proximity to Denver and the opportunity to climb two non-technical mountains in one hike. However, “easy” is a relative term, not a literal one. There aren’t any easy fourteeners, only some that are less difficult than others. Experts usually evaluate a mountain’s difficulty based on the technical ability required to climb it, not the amount of route distance or elevation gain from the trailhead, although these factors often influence each other. Environmental factors, like weather and time of year, weigh heavily on individual experiences and can make any hike feel more or less challenging than expected. Every day leading up to the day I’d planned to climb Grays and Torreys, I checked online forums for new trail reports from other hikers and prayed for favorable conditions. At best, I knew I could expect single digit temperatures and severe wind gusts that would only intensify on the precarious ridge between the two summits. Multiple trip reports in the weeks leading up to my hike recounted abandoned attempts at crossing the ridge due to the intensity of the wind, a seasonal side effect of the transition from fall to winter at high altitudes.

The days in Colorado prior to my Grays and Torreys summit hike only increased my concerns about the coldness and brutality of the wind gusts. My friends and I experienced them while hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park, and the highest altitude we reached there was about 12,000 feet. Considering the severity of the winds in less exposed environments and more than 2,000 vertical feet below the summits of Grays and Torreys, fear dominated my thoughts, and doubt started creeping in.

My hair looks like this is every photo from this hike. What can you do, though?

The day before the hike, I said goodbye to my friends as they headed to the airport, and I checked into a cheap motel in Idaho Springs, a 45-minute drive from the trailhead. Maybe my expectations were low, but as it turns out, Idaho Springs is actually kind of cute. I wouldn’t recommend it as a destination, but if you’re passing through on I-70 or want to take advantage of the incredible hiking in the surrounding area, it’s not a bad place to be. I ate some of the best pizza I’ve had in a long time (Beau Jo’s), and promptly went back to my room around 8:00 PM to prepare for an early start on the trail. In the quiet loneliness of my motel room in that isolated town, sleep did not come easily as my mind raced with the uncertainties of the next day.

I reached the trailhead before sunrise, after a dark and skecthy drive up a rugged mountain road that would have been insurmountable without a 4WD vehicle with some clearance. My rented Dodge Journey made the trek at a slow and steady pace, but she got me there. I hiked west along the trail and watched the sun rise above the mountains as I approached the tree line. Because the trailhead rests at nearly 11,000 feet, the trees fade into the background after less than a mile of steady uphill hiking. As a result, both Grays and Torreys tower majestically in view throughout most of the approach.

Grays and Torreys, as viewed from the trail at dawn

God and Mother Nature blessed me with favorable weather, so despite the cold and the wind gusts, the sky was a brilliant shade of solid blue. I felt the bone-chilling intensity of the wind every time it picked up, which happened more frequently as I climbed upward, but the consistency of that sky and the serenity of the alpine tundra landscape fueled me forward. I realized the magnitude of loneliness quickly and often thought of challenging hikes I’ve taken before this one. I remembered the support and encouragement I had from others, those who accompanied me on previous hikes and those who were cheering from the sidelines. Regardless, it didn’t take long for me to realize that a hike like this one is much harder on your own. I struggled with doubt and fear constantly, and there wasn’t anyone there to reassure me in the many moments when brutal winds, incessant breathlessness, or dizzying exposure made me want to turn around and return to my rental car. I thought about that often, knowing I’d have other opportunities in the future to come back and summit these mighty peaks under more favorable conditions. Nonetheless, I kept going.

views across the valley from the upper slopes of Grays Peak, around 13,500 ft

Somewhere north of 13,500 feet, I convinced myself that reaching the summit of Grays would be enough, considering the reports I’d read about the treacherous and highly exposed trail along the ridge to Torreys Peak. Grays is the taller and less technical of the two mountains, and I could avoid the ridge by descending along the same trail I’d taken up. I’d return home feeling content to have even climbed one fourteener by myself. These were my thoughts as I climbed the final stretch of exposed scree to reach the summit of Grays.

Breathless and shaking, I emerged onto the summit of Grays, only to be greeted by a wind gust so strong it nearly sent me tumbling off the mountain. Luckily, someone had assembled a wind shelter on the summit in the form of a curved rock wall several feet high. I crouched beside it to take in the incredible views. It’s funny how the view always feels different from the summit, even when looking at scenery that’s been visible along the upper sections of the trail that lie immediately below the top. It’s as if your brain changes gears and finally allows you to take it all in with a fresh perspective of achievement. I gazed in awe across the terrain I’d just hiked and looked for the first time into the vast mountainous beauty that lie on the other side of Grays Peak. Hundreds of mountains surrounded me on all sides, and I felt like I was perched majestically above all of them.

The summit of Grays Peak (14,270 ft) is the highest point on the Continental Divide.

From the summit of Grays, Torreys suddenly looked less intimidating. I could now see the entire route across the ridge, and although it still intimidated me, with wind so intense that I could literally see it in the form of wispy dust clouds flying off the mountain like tiny translucent hawks, it appeared to be more manageable than it had looked from below. I decided to try it, knowing I could descend from a trail near the saddle if I changed my mind on the way down the from the summit of Grays. I started moving down the side of mountain and quickly realized that this trail was much steeper than the one I’d ascended on the way up. The winds on this part of the trail were stronger and colder than any I’d encountered yet, but I moved slowly forward until I reached the saddle and the spur trail that reconnected with the one I’d ascended to the summit of Grays.

This is the view from the saddle on the ridge between Grays and Torreys, facing the valley that the trail ascends through on its way to the peaks.

I don’t know if it was divine intervention or if I’d just crossed an endurance threshold that made the winds seem less noticeable, but in that moment of decision, I found a sudden burst of energy and determination. The most exposed section of the ridge was still in front of me, but for the first time on that hike, I felt calm and confident. I figured I’d better start moving again before that faded. The trail leading to the summit of Torreys is steeper and more technical than the one I’d taken to the top of Grays. Despite the more rugged terrain, however, the wind wasn’t as much of a factor as it had been before. It was almost 11:00 AM by now and still well below freezing at this altitude, but as the sun rose higher in the sky, the mountain felt warmer and less threatening.

I propelled my aching body over the final pitch and onto the summit just in time to high-five a couple from North Carolina who I’d met on the summit of Grays. These mountains were their first fourteeners, and they’ll never know it, but hiking behind them motivated me to keep going when I felt discouraged along the ridge. I could see them pressing on ahead of me, tiny dots on the side of the mountain, and it reminded me of hiking my first fourteener with Andy a year earlier.

The altitude written on the rock is 8 ft higher than the mountain’s actual height, but I support whoever made the decision to round up.

From the top of Torreys, I stared across the ridge I’d traversed from the summit of Grays, standing in the spot I didn’t think I could reach just two hours earlier. This filled me with an overwhelming sense of triumph and a humbling dose of perspective. The views were different but just as magnificent as the ones from the summit of Grays, and if I hadn’t been running behind an already tight schedule, I could have stayed on top of that mountain all afternoon, despite the wind and the cold. Reluctantly, I started making my way down the trail and back to the saddle, feeling exhausted but invincible.

The fall colors on the alpine tundra sparkled beneath the bluebird sky. I hadn’t noticed their brightness on the hike in, during the dim dawn hours as the sun rose behind the mountains east of Grays and Torreys, casting a shadow across the valley beneath the peaks. I encountered several groups of hikers on the way down, sharing advice from my experience when asked, and providing words of encouragement to those who looked like they needed it. When I returned to the trailhead, I felt physically and mentally drained but entirely fulfilled by the experience. That’s always the goal, right?

Grays Peak, as viewed from the summit of Torreys Peak

Without a doubt, this was one of my best hiking adventures yet. I tested my perceived limitations and emerged from the experience stronger and braver than I’d been before. The confidence I gained on those mountains has manifested itself in my everyday life too, as I pursued an incredible and competitive new job opportunity. I started that new job three weeks ago and couldn’t be happier. This hiking adventure continues to amaze me, not just through the places I’ve seen, but through how much I’ve learned about myself and grown as a result. I still have the same fears, but through my own courage and the support of others, I’m learning how to face them. Fear isn’t a choice, but courage is.

celebrating on top of Torreys Peak, my second fourteener of the day
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Hiking Underground at Mammoth Cave National Park

In the South, there’s no better time for an underground hike than the middle of summer. When August temperatures above ground make even the most heavily shaded trails feel like saunas, Tennessee and Kentucky offer several optimal underground hiking alternatives. None of these is more well known than Mammoth Cave National Park, easily accessible by a ninety-minute drive north from Nashville. As the only national park that’s justifiable as a day trip from my home in the Music City, the fact that I didn’t explore this place sooner completely baffles me. However, I couldn’t have picked a better opportunity to reunite with one of my favorite hiking partners and beat the heat by taking this chapter in the second iteration of my New Year’s Resolution underground.

Megan and I in a low-quality photo from a high-quality underground hike at Mammoth Cave. NPS strictly prohibits camera flashes inside the cave, so this is the best shot my iPhone could manage to produce.

Naturally, Mammoth Cave has been high on my “unexplored hiking destinations within a couple of hours of Nashville” bucket list (yes, I’ve got one of those) since the beginning of this journey in January of 2018. But this local climate that’s nothing short of smoldering for about eight months every year, as I’ve since learned, significantly changes beneath the earth’s surface. My hike at Mammoth Cave with Megan, a close friend who I’ve hiked with more times than maybe anyone, felt different than any other hike I’ve ever taken, and not just because of temperature differential below ground. I’ll admit that part felt so refreshing, because I can’t think of another summertime activity (outdoors and out of water) this close to home that gives me the chills, in the best way.

The entirety of the four-mile trail that Megan and I hiked lay beneath the ground. However, I’d describe this trail as generously moderate, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, the National Park Service does not allow mere mortals to explore Mammoth Cave without a guide. I respect this, since Mammoth Cave is the world’s largest known cave system. The cave encompasses more than 400 miles of explored passages, only 14 of which are accessible to the general public, and many experts believe that at least half of the Mammoth Cave system has yet to be discovered. To the federal government, that translates to countless opportunities for unaccompanied and inexperienced tourists to get lost in the dark. As if NPS needs an additional reason to require Mammoth Cave visitors to enter the cave with a guide, it’s also extremely hazardous for the cave’s internal ecosystem to endure the human impact associated with unmitigated foot traffic.

Stalactites hang from the ceiling in several places in Mammoth Cave. Formed by mineral deposits on the limestone surface of the cave, stalactites grow at a rate of 10 cm per thousand years.

Accompanied by two park rangers and sixty other cave visitors, Megan and I descended into Mammoth Cave and embarked on the Grand Avenue Tour, the longest and most strenuous option available that doesn’t require caving equipment or experience. If you’re planning to visit Mammoth Cave, check out their website to learn about your tour options, as many (including Grand Avenue) are only offered seasonally. Megan and I were lucky to snag two of the last remaining spots on our tour about a week in advance. All tours require check-in at the Visitor Center prior to departure via shuttle to one of a handful of cave entrances.

Soon after entering the cave, I began reaching into my backpack for my pullover jacket, as the temperatures inside the cave felt at least forty degrees cooler than those above ground. Besides the chill in the air, the first thing I noticed was the infrastructure built within the cave, thoughtfully designed to accommodate crowds who don’t spend much time underground. The trail was smooth and even, and actually paved with a concrete mixture made from loose rubble cleared from the cave’s passages that are now accessible to visitors. The cave also had electricity, powered by generators along the trail that the enabled the rangers to turn lights on and off as we moved from one area to the next. Ladies and gentlemen, this cave even had bathrooms, and not the portable kind. These toilets flushed.

NPS strategically places small spotlights within the cave that allow visitors to see into the recesses along the trail without obstructing the path or the view.

All things considered, this might be the most civilized hike I’ve ever taken. It’s certainly the largest group I’ve ever hiked with, and the first guided hike I’ve taken since I started this journey. Although part of me feels disheartened about the manmade modifications to such an astounding natural wonder, another part of me appreciates that the National Park Service has made it possible for people like me to safely explore a place that would otherwise be inaccessible. This managed approach grants access to a limited number of guests and only in predetermined areas, all for a price. The controlled nature of this organized system, and the revenue that it generates, helps to preserve the cave for future generations of explorers.

Many of my photos turned out blurry as my phone struggled to focus in the dim light. However, some of these blurry photos, like this one of Megan, appropriately reflect the cave’s mysterious ambiance.

Ranger Steve, the NPS officer who led our journey, provided detailed historical and speleological anecdotes as we moved through the caverns. Speleology is the term that defines the study of caves, and I learned the name of this ancient science through a wise sage called Google. While most of the passages that we moved through didn’t feel cramped at all, this journey included a few spaces that would make a claustrophobe sweat, even in the cool subterranean climate. The rock formations changed as we moved through the cave, and Ranger Steve provided an excellent translation of the story that unfolded through the intricate patterns on those limestone walls. Mammoth Cave developed over the course of hundreds of millions of years, and it’s still a magnificent work in progress.

As my first underground hike, this one will always stand out in my memory as a completely unique experience, and one that I’m so grateful to have shared with my favorite Kentucky native, Megan. Not surprisingly, hiking through dark spaces beneath the earth’s surface produces sub-optimal lighting for photos, and NPS has a strict policy against flash photography in the cave, due to its harmful impact on bats, spiders, and the other species that call Mammoth Cave home. If you’re looking for a hike that will produce an array of likable photos to post on Instagram, this destination isn’t for you. I think that’s part of the appeal. Mammoth Cave presents a rare opportunity for the average tourist to explore one of the world’s most impressive natural phenomenons. There are no mountain vistas or breathtaking waterfalls inside this cave, but that doesn’t compromise the beauty of this enigmatic landscape.

As the downward pattern suggests, a waterfall formerly flowed over this rock face inside the cave. Darkness shrouds the bottom of the cavern below, making its depth impossible to define from the trail above.

Caves feel so personal to me, because of the closeness of the surrounding landscape, both comforting and intimidating at the same time. Despite the fact that I hiked through Mammoth Cave as a member of a large tour group, parts of this experience felt incredibly intimate. I salute NPS for this. While I still prefer adventures above ground, I foresee additional cave hikes in my future, and I’m lucky to live in an area that provides plenty of subterranean options.

This view shows the ceiling in what’s known as the Drapery Room, where stalactites and stalagmites create a curtain effect that dominates nearly every inch of this beautiful space.
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Big South Fork: Honey Creek Loop Trail

We’re halfway through another trip around the sun, and I’m halfway through the second year of my resolution to explore at least one new hiking trail every month. Through the first half of 2019, I explored eight new trails across four states, and nine adventure loving friends joined me on one or more of these hikes. I’ve experienced some overwhelmingly beautiful and diverse wild places over the past six months, from the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California to the wildflower-spotted forests of Alabama. However, the memories that stand out to me the most aren’t about the scenery, but about exploring those magnificent wild places for the first time with so many wonderful people. Hiking alone challenges me, especially on strenuous trails (like Fiery Gizzard, one of my favorites that can be hiked as a day trip from my home in Nashville), but hiking with friends presents a totally different and equally meaningful kind of gratification.

Carley, Lexi, Anne, me, and Megan, hiking through the cavernous woodlands of Honey Creek Loop at Big South Fork in Tennessee

Over the last weekend in June, I rented a cabin with friends at Big South Fork National Recreation Area and hiked Honey Creek Loop, an enigmatic trail that felt more remote and unpredictable than anything I’ve encountered yet in my home state, maybe anywhere. I think this deserves some back story. I travel out west as often as I can because a panoramic view from the upper slopes of a big mountain takes my breath away every time I look up from the trail. It’s a powerful thing to feel so small and humble yet so triumphant and infinite in the same moment. My first immersive experience in a mountainous wilderness was on a trip to Alaska with Andy just two years ago. After my first summit hike, to the top of Mount Healy in Denali National Park, I knew with unflinching certainty that I’d always love big mountains and the man who introduced them to me.

Andy and me, near the summit of Mount Healy in Denali National Park in Alaska

I say all of this to illustrate the unlikely balance between the trails I travel to and the trails that I call home. My passion for one is idealistic and ambitious, and my passion for the other feels familiar and comfortable. It’s a union between branches and roots, and a tree needs both in order to thrive. As much as I love the expansive beauty of mountains, the allure of the deep woods and canyons surrounding the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee feels so immensely personal. Hiking these trails in summer months guarantees dense woodlands with limited lines of sight, hidden waterfalls and caves, the incessant sounds of nearby wildlife – seen and unseen, and an invigorating sense that you’re enveloped on all sides by your immediate surroundings.

My experience on Honey Creek Loop represents the pinnacle of everything I love about hiking in Tennessee: the mystery and anticipation of what lies beyond my immediate surroundings while immersed below the thick canopy of the forest, and the refreshing inhalation of open air that accompanies a seat on the edge of an exposed cliff that really wasn’t visible until it was only a few feet in front of you. Honey Creek Loop includes a whole lot of the former and very little of the latter. Then again, it’s likely that we overlooked many of this trail’s hidden gems because the path itself was so difficult to follow. My friends and I accidentally wandered off the trail more times than I can recall. Although we were never really lost, I got the sense that we missed things, and that this alluringly complex trail needs to be hiked a few times before it can really be appreciated, and certainly before it can be properly navigated.

Much of the trail ran in a narrow line alongside the bottom of large, cavernous cliff formations, shrouded beneath a dense woodland canopy

All five of us who hiked Honey Creek Loop together lost phone service long before we arrived at the trailhead, and we didn’t regain it once while on the trail. After studying the topographic trail map and reviews from other hikers on AllTrails, we decided to hike the loop counter-clockwise. The map of the route in the AllTrails listing is accurate, but the length is incorrectly listed at four miles, when the full loop (including the spur to the overlook – which is totally worth a short detour), is realistically almost six miles. As advised by signs at the trailhead, hikers should plan for one hour per mile on this strenuous trail. This strategy allows extra time to scout and navigate (and backtrack after a wrong turn) when the correct path forward isn’t apparent, which happens often. It also accounts for the trail’s many boulder scrambles and slow traverses across uneven, unpredictable terrain. Overall, the trail’s elevation gain and length may seem modest, but trust me, neither of those are accurate indicators of what hikers will actually encounter here.

We turned off the main trail (on purpose this time) and climbed a series of long ladders to reach the overlook, and the views were definitely worth the effort.

Over the first mile or so, the trail steadily descends into a canyon, with the surrounding vegetation encroaching more and more on our group as we approached Honey Creek at the bottom. To make a mediocre attempt at a poetic nature metaphor (or simile, I forget the rules), the descent into the increasing density of the surrounding woodlands feels like slowly wrapping yourself up in a blanket. Although it’s a magnificent blanket, at a certain point its closeness becomes constrictive, so you keep moving in hopes that you’ll regain a comfortable balance between immersion and flexibility. And we hadn’t even reached the caves yet.

I vividly remember the caves surrounding this trail and the high cliffs rising above them. Their daunting beauty was impossible to miss, and our imaginations ran wild trying to envision the mysteries that their shadows obscured. As I mentioned earlier, hiking through the canyons along the Cumberland Plateau is not a quiet endeavor, at least not in the warm months (in Tennessee, that’s about nine of them). The sounds of water, wind, and wildlife moving through these spaces is ever present, and there’s not always a visual explanation to accompany the varied sounds along the trail. The ambiguous relationship between sound and sight on trails like this one can’t be taken for granted, and it always keeps you guessing. After the initial descent into the canyon, trail conditions intensified. Suddenly, we were no longer hiking alongside dark and obscure caverns, but through them.

If there’s a graceful way to travel through a cave, I haven’t learned that trick yet. Also, if you look on the right side of this photo, you’ll notice a trail marker on the tree outside of the cave, a rare sight in these woods.

None of the caves or rock formations that we hiked through or scrambled over were individually extensive, but they were frequent enough to stand out as a defining feature on the trail. A simple wrong turn within the cavernous void often led us to believe that as long as we emerged back into the light, we were headed in the right direction. However, these short-lived perceptions frequently ended with resounding confirmation of our inadequate navigation skills. The most straightforward path wasn’t always the trail. Even when we weren’t passing through rocky dens or boulder fields, the overgrown forest often obscured the trail or created an illusion that led us astray. Needless to say, we relied heavily on the GPS function within the map on AllTrails, but when you’re buried so deep in the wilderness, location accuracy is only an approximation. We usually didn’t realize we’d ventured off the trail until we moved far enough in the wrong direction to create a distinguishable distance between us and the trail on the digital map.

Lexi and Megan search for the trail as Maggie observes. As we learned after trial and error, the trail does not move upward past Megan on the right side of this photo. It actually runs through the narrow opening between the boulders on the left.

In a way, the constant need to focus on navigation created some blind spots. In places where we felt uncertain of the right path forward, we weren’t paying as much attention to the pristine beauty surrounding us. While passing along a narrow section of trail through a particularly rugged boulder field, maybe a mile and a half into the hike, I was walking ahead of our group and so focused on my footing that I didn’t notice a massive snake until I was only a few feet away from it. At least five feet long and sprawled across a rock immediately on my left, the snake was already staring at me as I became of aware of its presence. Despite instantly realizing that this was a common king snake, nonvenomous and nonviolent, I froze, shocked by the sight of something so glaringly present that I’d somehow overlooked.

I took this photo only a few feet ahead of where I was standing on the trail when I first noticed the snake, still and quietly watching me become of aware of its presence.

Although we didn’t encounter any other snakes on this hike (none that we saw, anyways), that experience makes me wonder what else we missed. To be clear, this trail definitely doesn’t lack excitement or up close and personal views of the gorgeous Tennessee wilderness. And as has been my experience on similarly remote and challenging trails in my home state (Savage Gulf comes to mind), we saw only a small handful of other hikers, all in groups. The absence of solo hikers didn’t cross my mind at the time, but it’s a rare thing to witness and a testament to the enigmatic nature of the trail. If I’d hiked this one alone, never having been there before, I’d probably still be out there, utterly lost and resigned to my new life as a modern day cave dweller.

The trail passed beside this ominous cave, not through it. The mysterious presence of the ladder, however, piqued our curiosity. Unfortunately, the ladder was incredible unstable, and putting weight on the upper rungs would have caused it to fall apart.

Speaking of cave dwellers, I experienced my first ever bear encounter near the end of Honey Creek Loop. With only a mile or so remaining between us and the sacred air conditioning of our car, we started to feel the increasing the weight of physical exhaustion. This realization, in addition to growing concern over the waning daylight hours as afternoon turned into evening, motivated us to move at a quick pace on this last stretch of our journey. The trail became easier to distinguish (finally) as it ascended away from the jagged canyon floor and the creek. As we passed what may have been the final cave that we saw on the trail, about thirty yards to our right and on the opposite side of a shallow creek, I heard a short, low, rumbling sound. The sound was faint and far enough away to make me question whether or not I’d really heard it, but when I heard it again less than a minute later, I knew. That sound was coming from a bear, and that bear wanted us to know we were hiking through its territory.

We never saw the bear, but we didn’t linger in the area or get any closer to the cave to investigate. We didn’t even acknowledge it until we got back to the car, but we all knew in that moment what the dark depths of that cave obscured. I think none of us wanted to create a sense of panic among the group, and there wasn’t much we could do about it anyways, except to keep moving and hope that the bear would remain in its cave. We discussed it at length later that evening over beer and pizza, relieved that the moment had passed without confrontation, but thrilled to have had the experience.

I’ll scale snake-infested boulder fields for a good photo op.

Those sentiments about the bear encounter apply to our overall experience with Honey Creek Loop as well. Please brace yourself for the following emotional ramblings of another basic white girl who went outside and had a nice time (because the world needs more of that, right?). The significance that I took away from my hike through this magnificent, untamed space was this: In the wild and in life, we’re not meant to see everything. Because of our limited capacity as humans, we’ll inevitably miss many extraordinarily beautiful things, dangerous things, and things that are painfully both. We’ll have faith in the reality of things we cannot see, and we’ll often overlook or take for granted things that lie in plain sight. We’ll stray from our rightful paths and move through dark places, and we’ll rely on friends for guidance when we can’t seem to find a way to move forward. As we approach the end of the trail, maybe we’ll find peace in knowing that we’ve already conquered our greatest challenges, and hopefully we’ll feel fulfilled and grateful for the beauty we’ve been blessed to encounter along the way.

Maggie, the true leader of our party and the fiercest animal in the forest
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Beaman Park: A Wild and Often Overlooked Hiking Destination in Nashville

I can’t really pin it on one thing, but for a collection of small reasons, last month I came closer to failing to fulfill my monthly new hike than I have since this journey began sixteen months ago. Each of these reasons would have been individually insignificant (until they started to pile up), and I found myself staring down the final weekend in April and hadn’t made any plans for a new hike. To complicate matters, I’d already booked a flight to New Orleans that weekend to visit my parents and attend a concert with my dad for his birthday (We saw Van Morrison at Jazz Fest, and in case you were wondering, Van’s still got it). While New Orleans is an outstanding destination for music and culture, it’s not a great destination for hiking. I took an early flight back to Nashville on the final day of April, praying for no delays, and started looking into the few trails I hadn’t yet hiked within a dozen or so miles of the city.

Henry Hollow Loop at Beaman Park in Nashville, TN

I decided to visit a 5.5 mile loop trail at Beaman Park, a place I’d heard very little about. Despite the park’s relatively close proximity to Nashville (about half an hour’s drive from downtown), the area feels much more remote. Soon after leaving the city limits behind me, I noticed that the landscape changed quickly. The buildings started getting smaller as the spaces between them grew bigger. After only a few minutes, the buildings nearly faded away all together as the road twisted through rolling hills and dense woods toward Beaman Park.

When I arrived at the parking lot near the Creekside trailhead, there was only one other car in sight. Even at 3:30 PM on a muggy Tuesday, this surprised me. I frequently hike at Percy Warner and Radnor Lake, where the trails stay packed, regardless of time of day or week. I suspected that Beaman Park, as a smaller park further away from the city center, would be less crowded than the other two, but this place was eerily, and delightfully, deserted. Eager to explore this park in its most natural, undisturbed state, I made a brief stop at the information sign to plan my route before hitting the trail.

views from the Creekside trailhead at Beaman Park

I hiked a combination of Henry Hollow Loop and Ridgetop Trail. I’m naturally inclined to hike loop trails in clockwise direction, unless there’s a compelling reason why I shouldn’t. With no one around to suggest otherwise, I followed my instincts and veered to the left as I started to make my way around Henry Hollow Loop. The initial stretch of Henry Hollow Loop runs roughly parallel to Henry Creek, a scenic, quiet creek with patches of wildflowers sprouting from its banks during my visit in late spring. After about a mile, the trail splits, with the left fork leading across a bridge over the creek and uphill toward the Nature Center. Working with a limited amount of remaining daylight, I declined this detour and followed the right fork as it twisted upward toward the intersection with Ridgetop Trail.

Henry Creek, slowly flowing alongside Henry Hollow Loop

The trail narrows as it climbs the ridge, but the elevation gain is moderate. The dense forest completely envelops the scenery along the trail and creates a tunnel-like effect, a constant reminder that I was completely alone on this trail. A year ago, this would have made me feel apprehensive and vulnerable, but I’ve since learned to appreciate these rare moments of solitude on hiking trails, especially those so close to Nashville. I only passed one other hiker after turning onto Ridgetop Trail, an out-and-back tangent off of Henry Hollow Loop that contributes about two thirds of the total distance covered by the combined trails. Ridgetop Trail ends abruptly in the middle of the forest, in a clearing with a few primitive benches. The trees are too dense to allow any view across the surrounding area, but the clearing provides a quiet space to rest (and take a selfie, maybe) before turning around to head back to Henry Hollow Loop.

the clearing that abruptly ends Ridgetop Trail

Lightly trafficked trails generally offer a better opportunity to see snakes. I’m always looking out for snakes on my hikes, but I usually don’t see any. As strange as it may sound, I think snakes are fascinating and beautiful, when viewed from a safe distance (that part is critical to an enjoyable snake sighting). I’d seen a photo of a rattlesnake on the information sign at the trailhead, and I was hoping I’d see one on my hike (again, from a safe distance, I can’t stress this enough). I regret to report that I didn’t see any rattlesnakes, but I did see a small, harmless brown snake slithering across the trail and out the way of my approaching footsteps.

the small, non-venomous brown snake that I encountered on the trail

The snake sighting occurred close to the end of my hike, after I’d returned to Henry Hollow Loop from Ridgetop Trail. This part of the loop covers mild terrain, but the trail remains narrow and heavily covered by a thick canopy of trees. The sounds of birds frequently interrupted the quiet. I’m not sure if this park has an abnormally high concentration of birds compared to other parks in the area, or if I was just more aware of the birds because there wasn’t really any other noise in the park. No noise from other hikers or cars, no noise from water rushing over rocks, just the birds and the occasional squirrel rustling through the leaves on the forest floor.

Throughout the 5.5-mile hike, I only saw four other people on the trail. I’m sure it’s busier on weekends, but I rarely have the opportunity to hike on weekdays due to my job. It only worked out for me to hike at Beaman Park on a Tuesday afternoon because I’d taken the day off to travel back to Nashville from New Orleans. I’m so grateful to have experienced this park for the first time on such a quiet day. I think many people would feel underwhelmed by this park, because there aren’t any scenic overlooks or so-called attractions like waterfalls or caves along the trail. However, the first word that pops into my mind when I think back to my hike here is “solitude”. It’s a rare thing to find so close to Nashville, and it stays with you after its gone. I find spiritual peace and comfort in these moments, and think of them often when the daily grind of my indoor obligations, like work and laundry, starts to wear me down.

naturally, pausing for a quick wilderness selfie in the clearing at the end of Ridgetop Trail

Places like Beaman Park are a big part of why I wanted to continue this New Year’s Resolution in 2019. This one wasn’t even on my radar last year, totally obscured by more well known trails and parks. It makes me wonder what I’ll discover if (let’s be real, it’s a matter of when not if) I continue on this adventure in 2020. I’m hopeful about what else is out there and can’t imagine that I’ll run out of unknown places to explore any time soon.

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Short Springs State Natural Area

Although I knew long before the end of 2018 that I wanted to keep my resolution to explore more going into 2019, one hesitation lingered in the back of my mind: Will I run out of new trails that I can access and hike as a day trip from Nashville? I travel frequently, both for work and for fun, so about half of my new hikes have occurred away from Tennessee. Aside from the obvious joys of discovering new places far away from home, regular travel makes this resolution more practical. I hate to say it like that, because Tennessee is home to many outstanding trails, and I’ve revisited most of the new ones I’ve discovered over the past year simply because I loved them and wanted to go back, regardless of my New Year’s resolution. However, time and geography absolutely impose limitations on how long I can reasonably continue this resolution, considering my other obligations (like paid employment and a dog, for example).

Machine Falls, the main attraction at Short Springs Natural Area

Finding new trails within relative proximity to Nashville hasn’t been much of a challenge yet, and I can say with relative confidence that if anything stops me from completing this resolution in 2019, it’s not going to be a lack of convenient trails. Sure, I’ll continue to have opportunities to hike while traveling, but even if those don’t work out (I try not to think about the remote possibility that I encounter a torrential downpour on every day of every vacation I take for the rest of the year… Yikes!), I still feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface on trails close to home. And that’s an amazing feeling.

At the beginning of February, I decided I’d take advantage of the first weekend day without rain in the forecast as my opportunity to explore a new trail. I had to wait three weeks into the month for this, and despite record-breaking rainfall and flooding across middle Tennessee that closed many of our state parks and trails, I discovered Short Springs Natural Area and Machine Falls Loop Trail. Located about seventy miles southeast of Nashville, the interconnected trails at Short Springs traverse sections of easy to moderate terrain. A couple of signature waterfalls are easily accessible from the main trailhead, but multiple spur trails off the main loop provide options to extend the journey for those who want to see more.

Bobo Creek, as viewed from a bridge a few dozen feet upstream from Busby Falls

I learned about this trail through AllTrails, and what the site define as Machine Falls Loop actually includes Bobo Creek Trail as well. Bobo Creek Trail leads past Busby Falls and forms a horseshoe shape that connects with Machine Falls Loop on both ends. Roundtrip, this is about a 2.3 mile hike. Off of Bobo Creek Trail, just past Busby Falls, there’s another loop trail called Laurel Bluff that extends the hike by about a mile and a half. I took this detour, and although most of the trail winds through a dense forest, the section that runs close to the edge of the bluff exposes idyllic views of the creek and several small waterfalls from above. While Machine Falls is certainly the main attraction and can be accessed by a quick 1.6 mile roundtrip trek, Bobo Creek and Laurel Bluff trails are certainly worth exploring too.

views of Bobo Creek from above on Laurel Bluff Trail

I hiked these trails on a Monday, President’s Day (I’m not sure how this qualifies as a holiday at the marketing technology company where I work, but some questions are better left not asked. I’ll take a work holiday however I can get one.). I ran into very few other hikers, and only on Machine Falls Loop. I ended up hiking most of this trail with a mother/daughter pair of hikers who live in the area. The daughter had visited all of the trails at Short Springs before and provided some insightful tips that helped confirm my decision to hike Bobo Creek and Laurel Bluff after Machine Falls Loop, instead of hiking a nearby trail at Old Stone Fort State Park. I’ll save that one for another month.

Although relatively short, Machine Falls Loop contains a couple of moderately challenging sections. I hiked this loop clockwise, because I intended to hike to Busby Falls via Bobo Creek Trail on the way to Machine Falls, saving the bigger waterfall for the last part of my journey. The trails at Short Springs are well marked, but because the trail map in AllTrails is inaccurate, I ended up hiking straight to Machine Falls, bypassing Bobo Creek Trail. Because of this, I hiked a short section at the beginning of Machine Falls Loop twice in order to circle back around to Bobo Creek Trail. In hindsight, this also allowed me to knock out the toughest pieces of my hike earlier on, as Bobo Creek and Laurel Bluff are both relatively mild trails.

beautiful view of the creek from Machine Falls Loop

About a quarter of a mile from Machine Falls, the trail sharply descends down a steep bluff, with stairs and even handrails in some places in order to provide extra support. The sun was out in full force on the day of my hike, but I proceeded with caution through this section because the trail was still slick and muddy from previous days of rain. After reaching the bottom of the gulf, the trail leads across a wooden bridge over Bobo Creek, downstream of Machine Falls. At this point, Machine Falls isn’t visible around a bend in the creek, and reaching the falls requires a short journey over slippery rocks along the edge of the creek. There’s not a trail, but the path forward is pretty apparent, and a close-up view of this magnificent waterfall is totally worth the extra effort.

As is always the case with loop trails, what goes down must come back up, and vice versa. When hiking the loop clockwise, the journey out of the gulf isn’t as steep as the way down, but there’s still several hundred feet of elevation gain over about a third of a mile. This section of trail runs along the edge of a bluff, overlooking a wider section of Bobo Creek that flows into the Machine Falls Branch of Normandy Lake. After curving away from the edge of the bluff, the trail loops back around the other side of Machine Falls, past an overlook that offers a beautiful view of the waterfall from above.

Machine Falls, as viewed from above

Although my hike at Short Springs wasn’t as long or as challenging as most of the new hikes I’ve taken since I started this journey, I never set out on a mission to complete the most strenuous new trail I could find every month. Difficult hikes generally lead to more rewarding scenery, because significant elevation change often means big views from high points overlooking expansive spaces. Longer hikes allow deeper access into wild and pristine spaces, which often results in lower foot traffic and the opportunity to enjoy some peaceful time alone on the trail. However, the trails I hiked at Short Springs are a perfect example of why it’s unfair to overlook easy hikes. There are so many things worth seeing in the wild that really don’t require much effort.

all smiles for this close up view of the Machine Falls
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Hiking at Mount Rainier National Park in Winter

New year, same resolution. If you kept up with my journey in 2018, you already know that I decided months ago to keep this resolution, to hike a trail I’ve never explored before at least once a month, going into 2019. It was an easy decision, and although the resolution hasn’t changed, the journey will be completely different as I experience at least twelve more trails for the first time. Living in Nashville, I don’t have quick access to as many trails as I would if I lived in a place like Denver, but I’m not worried about running out of options any time soon. Plus, with travel plans between now and July that include two trips to California and one to Colorado (for my wedding!), I’ll have plenty of opportunities for new adventures in wild and beautiful spaces away from home. If my first new hike of 2019, at Mount Rainier National Park, was any indication of what’s to come in this new year, this spectacular adventure’s only getting better with time.

taking a break from the trail to stop and take in a magnificent view of mount Rainier peaking through a gap in the evergreens

At the end of last month, I spent a week in Washington, including a few days with my aunt and uncle (and their sweet golden retriever) in Port Angeles and a few days in Seattle with a friend who recently moved there from Nashville. January is about as far as it gets from peak hiking season in Washington, but I wanted to be there for my friend’s thirtieth birthday on the 27th. While the opportunities for exploring new trails are limited at this time of year, that wasn’t the purpose of this vacation. Regardless, I was fortunate enough to enjoy a perfect balance of indoor and outdoor activities with people who mean much more to me than my pursuit of adventures in the wild.

Surprisingly, the weather in Port Angeles and Seattle was milder than the weather in Nashville during my visit. Of course, that statement only applies to the coastal areas where I spent my time during this trip. Wintry road conditions kept me close to sea level and away from significantly colder temperatures at higher altitudes. The snow capped peaks of the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges dominated the skyline above these coastal cities, a constant reminder of the extreme variation in geography that makes this region so beautiful.

Although it’s obviously not from my hike, this photo of Mount Rainier and the city skyline at sunset (taken from inside Seattle’s famous Space Needle) illustrates the magnitude of the peak, towering over the horizon from more than sixty miles away

Heavy snow essentially eliminates access to most of the interior of Mount Rainier National Park in January, but our options were further limited by the longest federal government shutdown in U.S. history. Even in winter, the National Park Service operates snow plows on roads in and out of the park to provide year-round access to certain areas that visitors can safely explore in the offseason. However, employees of the National Park Service are also employees of the federal government, deemed “nonessential” and therefore unable to work during the shutdown. With nobody around to plow the roads or update park websites to provide reliable information on park conditions, national parks succumb to the whims of nature during a shutdown. With this in mind, we honestly didn’t know what to expect when we drove out to Mount Rainier National Park from Seattle.

We approached Mount Rainier National Park via Highway 165, south of the Carbon River entrance in the northwest corner of the park. We left the pavement behind us about twelve or fifteen miles before we entered the park, and the road was ripe with potholes, so this journey consumed a lot more time than we’d expected. The scenery, however, was certainly worth it. As the road climbs upward towards the park boundary, there are countless overlooks and breathtaking views of the park’s namesake attraction, Mount Rainier, which towers over everything else in the park. Although Mount Rainier measures a few dozen feet shorter than Mount Elbert in Colorado, the peak that Andy and I climbed on my thirtieth birthday last September, its appearance is much more imposing. Whereas Mount Elbert is surrounded on all sides by dozens of mountains whose peaks rest within several hundred feet of its own, Mount Rainier stands more than 2,200 feet taller than the next highest mountain in the region. The severe contrast creates a stunning visual impact.

expansive view of Mount Rainier from the unpaved highway leading into the park

Highway 165 becomes Mowich Lake Road after entering the park and eventually leads to the trailhead for the Tolmie Peak Trail, widely regarded as one of the most scenic trails at Mount Rainier National Park. During the winter months, however, this road is closed to vehicle traffic shortly after it enters the park. We took the road as far as we could, and it led us to the trailhead for the Paul Peak Trail, so that’s the trail we hiked.

This out-and-back trail covers 6.3 miles, round trip, leading down into a canyon through a gorgeous forest of massive pine and cedar trees. There wasn’t any snow or ice on the trail, making this one a solid option if you’re looking for a trail inside the park that’s easily accessible as a day trip from Seattle in January. Throughout the first two miles of the hike, the dense evergreen forest obscures any view of Mount Rainier. In fact, we couldn’t see anything beyond the trees for most of the hike, which admittedly, felt really discouraging. Since none of us knew anything about this trail prior to our hike, we eventually accepted the fact that this one may not lead us past any substantial overlooks with views of the mountains or valley below.

The dense forest along the Paul Peak Trail, although beautiful, blocked any mountain views for the majority of the hike.

About a mile away from our turn around point, where the Paul Peak Trail feeds into the Wonderland Trail (an epic 93-mile loop around Mount Rainier), the trees began to open up enough every now and then to expose brilliant views of Mount Rainier and the valley floor below us. Every time we reached one of these spots, we stopped to stare in awe at the magnitude of the mountain before us. It’s a difficult thing to describe, almost like seeing Denali in Alaska for the first time. Witnessing a mountain like that at relatively close range, a mountain that makes all of its surrounding mountains look like ant hills, is a spiritual experience (for me, anyways). It’s a humbling reminder that those of us lucky enough to have the opportunity to explore this planet won’t ever really understand how big it is. As humans, we’re not supposed to understand it. However, that enchanting mystery of experiencing something wild and unfamiliar drives our innate desire to see as much of this world as we can while we’re here.

In conclusion, there are things I loved about the Paul Peak Trail and things that would make me hesitant to recommend it to others. I loved that this trail was easily accessible from Seattle and provided views of Mount Rainier, in the middle of winter AND during a government shutdown. I’m not sure if any other trail in the park checks all of those boxes. Also, I loved hiking here with close friends who’d also never experienced this trail before. When you’re not sure what to expect on a trail, knowing that you’ll at least have good company makes all the difference.

This trail was a perfect option for us, all things considered, but I’m certain that it’s far from the best one that Mount Rainier National Park has to offer. Of course, I can’t speak from experience. Although this wasn’t my first trip to Washington, I’d never been to Mount Rainier National Park before. Based on the very little I saw of the place, I know I want to go back under circumstances that will allow me to travel deeper into the park and spend more time there. I’ve read dozens of articles and reviews on the best trails to explore in the park, and Paul Peak Trail isn’t on any of them. Again, it’s a gorgeous trail, but pictures and reviews of other trails in the park leave me with little doubt that I’ve yet to see the best of what the park has to offer.

my friends, Anne and Katie, and me posing in front of Mount Rainier like the basic white girls in the woods that we are #blessed

Needless to say, this first new adventure of 2019 fills me with hope and excitement about what’s to come this year, and I can’t wait to see what else is out there.

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My 2018 New Year’s Resolution: The Final Chapter

One year ago, I had this tiny impulse to take a hike on a trail I’d never visited before. Honestly, this idea didn’t begin as a New Year’s Resolution. I’d never followed through on a New Year’s Resolution before, so as 2018 approached, I had little incentive to make that annual empty promise to become “better” in the coming year. I was burnt out on resolutions, and I didn’t want to deal with the subsequent self-loathing of failing to achieve a goal set with good intentions, even with the knowledge that success was never very realistic to begin with. The timing of this idea that evolved into my New Year’s Resolution was purely coincidental, a thought born out of boredom and a nagging desire to fill the cold post-holiday void known as January. My journey didn’t really begin until I realized that hiking this one trail I’d been wanting to explore for a while might only be the first chapter of a much bigger adventure.

Big Laurel Falls, one of many stunning sights along the hike to Virgin Falls in Tennessee, the trail where my 2018 New Year’s Resolution began

There’s no comprehensive way to quantify my hiking experience over the past twelve months, but I’ll give it my best shot: twenty-five previously unexplored trails, seven states, five mountain summits, dozens of waterfalls, a handful of caves, a few snakes, twenty or so alligators (yep, that happened), plus five incredible humans and two dogs who accompanied me on these assorted journeys. And that list barely scratches the surface.

While driving from Miami to Key West in March 2018, Andy and I took a detour to Everglades National Park, where we followed the Anhinga Trail through the heart of the swamp. Along this 1.5 mile trail, we saw about two dozen alligators, often with only a few yards and a patch of muddy grass separating us from them.

Words and numbers can’t capture the countless views that took my breath away, or the heart-pounding moments of intense exposure and narrow ledges that forced me to make a choice: confront my fear of heights and press on, or turn around and go home. I’m so grateful for every minute of this adventure and the value it added to my life in 2018, and one of my biggest triumphs is the fact that when presented with that choice, I never turned around and went home. I came close a few times, and there are a couple of hikes that I know I couldn’t have completed without support from my trail companions.

My friend, Megan, gave me the courage to shimmy across the smooth, vertical rock wall that led to the top of Cloud Splitter at Red River Gorge (and she went first to prove it wasn’t a death trap). Andy climbed the tallest peak in the Rocky Mountains with me, and for me, just because it was my birthday and I wanted to do it (one of many reasons why I’m marrying him). On my first new hike of 2018 at Virgin Falls, I was alone and slipped on a patch of ice, which sent me tumbling down a drop-off from the trail and into the dry creek bed below. A nameless stranger went out of his way to help me climb out and make sure I wasn’t seriously injured. Without that act of kindness, I may have abandoned this entire journey before it even began. I could go on and on about the support that’s carried me throughout this grand adventure.

the distant peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park, as viewed from the top of Green Mountain (8,150 ft) in Boulder, Colorado. I hiked to the top of this mountain in September 2018 via the Green Mountain West Trail

All of this brings me to the final chapter of my 2018 New Year’s Resolution. I didn’t climb a mountain or plan a trip to some remote wilderness on the other side of the country. I drove to Prentice Cooper State Forest, two hours southeast of Nashville and a short distance from Chattanooga. I didn’t learn about the trail to Snooper’s Rock until after Christmas, so not much planning went into my decision. But to be fair, not much planning went into my decision to start this journey in the first place, so it seems kind of appropriate.

The Cumberland Trail combines more than 200 miles of disjointed trail segments along the eastern border of Tennessee. My journey to and from Snooper’s Rock totaled 6 miles, though the namesake attraction is more easily accessible from a separate half-mile trail attached to a nearby parking lot. The section of trail that I hiked stretches along a high bluff, hundreds of feet above the Tennessee River, the same Tennessee River that runs through other parts of Tennessee, Alabama, and Kentucky before flowing into the Ohio River and eventually the Mississippi. For the most part, the trail runs close enough to the sharp edge of the bluff to expose panoramic views of the river below.

views across the Tennessee River Gorge from the Cumberland Trail approaching the overlook at Snooper’s Rock

There are many things that I enjoy about hiking in Tennessee during the colder months. Fewer people on the trails, much milder winter weather than the oppressive heat and humidity of summer, waterfalls and high rock walls adorned with hundreds of massive icicles, and enhanced visibility along trails due to the naked trees. My hike to Snooper’s Rock in late December checked all of these boxes. When I arrived at the small parking area beside the trailhead, there couldn’t have been more than five other cars in the lot. About half a mile into the journey, the trail descends through a staircase built into a crevice of a massive rock, which reminded me of the Stone Door at Savage Gulf (read more about that here), where I hiked in August 2018. Beyond this point, I only passed about six or eight other hikers on my way to Snooper’s Rock. Upon my arrival, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I had the place all to myself, at least for a few minutes until two other people showed up.

the magnificent view from Snooper’s Rock, high above the Tennessee River Gorge and absolutely stunning, even on a cloudy day in December

Snooper’s Rock extends like a peninsula from the edge of the bluff, providing panoramic views of the Tennessee River Gorge below. The rock area is large, flat, and treeless, with ample space in the middle for visitors who want to keep a safe distance from the edge without diminishing the impact of the view. Of course, if you’re like me and prefer the adrenaline rush of standing inches from the edge of a high cliff (sorry, mom), there’s plenty of room for that as well.

Every time I have the opportunity to confront my innate fear of heights, I take it. I understand the risk, but in my lifetime, I know I’ll only explore a microscopic fraction of this world’s wild and beautiful places. Time, resources, and access all create barriers beyond my control. But a fear of heights? That’s internal, and it’s one of the few things I can control. Conquering this fear significantly increases my limited opportunity to see places that I’d otherwise never even consider. It’s not easy, but I’m overcoming it a step (closer to the edge) at a time. It takes practice, plus a willingness to accept overwhelming vulnerability and then fight to find comfort in it, while exercising extreme caution and common sense, of course. Sure, challenging my fear of heights could lead me to an early death, or it could lead me down a path that ends with climbing Mount Everest one day. Neither scenario is very likely, so odds are quite high that I’ll land somewhere in between, happy and blessed.

Yes, those feet are mine, extended over the edge of Snooper’s Rock, a few hundred feet about the bottom of the gorge. This is how I practice a thing I refer to as “heights tolerance”.

I knew long before this final new hike of 2018 that I’d carry this resolution over into 2019. This journey means more than an annual promise to me, and while I’m so proud of how it all unfolded last year, I’m even more excited about what the future holds. As I write this, on the last day of the first month of the new year (another delayed post, something I’ll do my best to improve on in 2019), I’ve already completed my first hike of the new year, at Mount Rainier National Park in Washington. This place is mesmerizing, even in January during a government shutdown, and I can’t wait to share that experience. I’ve got plenty of other big plans for new hikes in 2019, including San Diego for an extended business trip in March and Telluride for our wedding in July. Side note: Ecstatic doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about marrying Andy in front of a small group of people we love and a big mountain backdrop.

the summit of Penobscot Mountain in Acadia National Park in Maine, May 2018, one of my favorite new hikes last year AND one of my favorite vacations yet with my soon-to-be husband

As I move into the next phase of this adventure, one thing remains abundantly clear: This journey is not about checking off locations on a map. It’s about setting aside time at least once a month to do something I love, something I can experience either by myself or with others who share my curiosity about nature. It’s less about the actual trails and more about the thrill of seeing something beautiful for the first time. That’s what inspired me in 2018, and it’s the fuel that’s keeping this fire burning in 2019.

So, cheers to 2019! if last year was any indication, this one’s going to be WILD .