The peak of Mount Mackenzie was slammed that morning. A pane of blue sky lit up April powder all around as a conciliatory parting gift from a long, dry winter. A guy with a 360 GoPro was tee-ing up the east face. There was a group of teenaged German exchange students, one with skis clumsily hung in an X rather than an A-frame on his pack. I was there with my buddy Mark, a pair of middle-aged men vying for a piece of the caked mountainside that had framed our younger years. And amongst a gaggle of two or three others, there was one lone snowboarder in military green pants, a camo fleece, and a camo jersey pulled over it for good measure.

ā€œWhere are you guys going?ā€ the guy in green asked me, his impressive duster of a mustache dancing over his lip.

ā€œOver to Spilled Milk,ā€ I answered.

ā€œIā€™m going to follow,ā€ he announced.

It was a self-invitation I would normally protest. But something about his nature felt unimposing, and there was a highway of people hiking upā€” everyone was coming if we didnā€™t go now. ā€œOK,ā€ I said, and we shoved off while the peak piled up like an escalator was letting off.

The traverse to Spilled Milk, a sidecountry run, is exposed and intimidating, but the guy in green gripped the ridgetop sun crust unfazed and held strong. When we reached the north-facing zone we sought, it rolled over and out of sight, as always. I had assumed he knew the run, but he told me he didnā€™t. There was a time when I would have said something rude and left him in my tracks. But if middle age has taught me anything, itā€™s that being a dick has gotten me nowhere.

ā€œWell, Markā€™s going into a cliffy area,ā€ I offered, ā€œand Iā€™m going to take the most straightforward line. So if you want to get rowdy follow Markā€™s track, if you want to keep it simple follow mine.ā€

ā€œIā€™ll follow you,ā€ he replied.

ā€œAlright, youā€™ll see me out the bottom once Iā€™m done.ā€

ā€œOK, Iā€™ll be up here until then.ā€

Mark went first, nailing his line, then I dropped in, poking through a small choke to emerge on a wide-open apron that was all for me. It was deliriously good. I fist-bumped Mark at the bottom and watched my new green friend trace his own smooth run down the same heavenly slope. He slid up next to us, out of breath and grinning.

ā€œHow was it?ā€ I asked,

ā€œGreat!ā€ he exclaimed.

We bumped fists, too, and he told me his name was Nick. I paused a moment before askingā€¦ ā€œAre you in the army?ā€

ā€œYeah,ā€ he answered softly as he unbuckled his board.

Most Canadians donā€™t have much interaction with our military. Itā€™s tiny, with under 100,000 troopsā€”including reservistsā€”for a country of 39 million. Compare that to the 2.8 million Americans serving in the United States Armed Forces. With the exception of going into Afghanistan after 9/11, the Canadian military has almost exclusively been a peacekeeping force for the last half-century, lending its minor might to the United Nations and other allies while tending to things like natural disasters at home.

I have never had much reverence for the military. Those from my high school who joined tended to be the same types of hockey jocks who tormented me in gym class. There was a willingness to violence and an attraction to authority in these people that always befuddled me. That resentment only entrenched deeper in college when I became decidedly anti-war and thus anti-soldier. We were well past the age of conscription, after all.

In Canada, at least where I grew up, there wasnā€™t such a big disparity between the rich and the poor. I hadnā€™t ever known anyone who enlisted because it was their best job option, but I did know some guys who signed up to pay for university.

I assumed Nick was stationed in Rogers Pass, 45 minutes west, where the army does avalanche control with Howitzer cannons to keep the Trans-Canada Highway safe (these guys call themselves ā€œsnow punchersā€). But Nick is in the infantry, he told me. He is stationed in Edmonton, Alberta, about seven hours north. He was simply snowboarding in Revelstoke on some time off. Itā€™s where the rest of the 20-somethings were, I guess, though he didnā€™t quite mesh with them.

He said he specialized in mountain operations. So had my grandfather. Two generations ago, he learned to ski in Norway as part of his training before eventually landing on Juneau beach for D-Day in a Sherman tank. I visited that site when I turned 30, about the same time I started to understand the world was more complicated than my ardent idealism. The Canadian flag is proudly hung outside many seaside French homes, and it has been waving there since 1945. I walked the Canadian graveyard to learn most were between the ages of 18 and 22 when they died. Then, when I shifted to the American graveyard, I saw tombstones consume the horizon with no visible end. Later that day, a French server wearing a scarf emblazoned with the stars and stripes at a restaurant on Omaha Beach asked me, ā€œAre you American?ā€

ā€œCanadian,ā€ I said.

ā€œOh, well thank you too,ā€ he answered.

Back in the free hills of Revelstoke, a universe away from any past or present conflict, Mark invited Nick to join us for another lap. I interrupted the carefree air to ask Nick if heā€™d been deployed. Yes, he said. He had spent a lot of time in Europe, training Ukrainians.Ģż

ā€œDo you keep in touch with any of them?ā€ I further inquired.

ā€œYeah, I try. But a lot of them die,ā€ he said. ā€œTheyā€™re running out of people over there, most of them are either dead or injured. All this stuff Iā€™m wearing, they gave me.ā€

The landscape seemed to morph around me just then. I felt momentarily stuck in an inverse world. It was as if being confronted by the physical incarnation of the disembodied newsā€”of the chaos at the bloody fringes of Western life, held back by some invisible force so that I could have a very different relationship with the mountains. For his part, Nick just stood there, still unfazed, ready to squeeze in one more run.

ā€œThank you for your service,ā€ I said. It was the first time in my life Iā€™d ever used the phrase.

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The post Skiing with a Soldier Transformed My Views on Military Service appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

This story, originally titled ā€œOn Ending,ā€ appeared in our 2024 print edition of Ascent. You can buy a copy of the magazineĢż.

The stratigraphic process of arthritis turned Royal Robbinsā€™ fingers to stone. He took up adventure kayaking. Charlie Porter, sailing. Jim Holloway got on his bicycle. ā€œTo go fast on two wheels was the point,ā€ writes the poet Frederick Seidel. ā€œTo go fast on two wheels is the point of life, isnā€™t it?ā€ Seidelā€™s father was disfigured by a fall, at age twelve, off a bicycle into a coal cellar. He walked home with a broken back and refused, thereafter, a therapeutic corset. Seidel Sr. matured into an athletic handball player and competitive golfer. Quinn Brett became an adaptive cyclist.

Kurt Albert fell from a via ferrata, and Wolfgang GĆ¼llich, returning home from an interview, crashed his motorcar. John Bachar crashed, too, in Utah, but he survived. Beverly Johnson, a feminist icon and a member of the first all-female team to climb El Cap, died in a helicopter accident. Her death was overshadowed in the news by the death of Frank Wells, a Seven Summits aspirant and the president and COO of the Walt Disney Company, who was on the same aircraft. Clint Eastwood was also heli-skiing with Wells and Johnson but had gone home an hour before. Isabelle Patissier turned to motorsport.

Beleaguered by scandal, Walter Bonatti quit. He became a journalist for Epoca. The Italian media, which celebrated his K2 teammates Achille Compagnoni and Lino Lacedelli, vilified Bonatti for stealing oxygen designated for a summit attempt. Thirty years later, Bonatti produced evidence that he had not done so. In fact, Compagnoni and Lacedelli, in the face of competition from Bonatti, may have hidden a tent from him and the porter Amir Mehdi, forcing them to bivouac at 8,100 meters. Mehdi lost his toes and became a government servant of Pakistan. The Italian government awarded him a pension. His son says that the checks never arrived.

People are never still, and they are never finished, writes the impeccable Hugh Raffles.

Aleister Crowley, between expeditions to the Alps and Nepal, encountered in Sweden ceremonial magic, occultism, and philosophy. He was already familiar with, as a student at Cambridge, drugs, prostitution, gonorrhea, chess, and poetry. His mother called him ā€œthe beast.ā€ In Sicily, he founded the Abbey of Thelema to usher in the Aeon of Horus. The Italian government expelled him.

John SalathĆ© abandoned his family for his native Switzerland, where he became an initiate of the medium Beatrice Brunner. He returned to the U.S. ten years later to life as a vagabond, vegetarian, spiritualist, and preacher. Louis Lachenal lost his toes and (according to Lionel Terray) his mind to Annapurna, on the summit of which he felt ā€œa painful sense of emptiness.ā€ Maurice Herzog, who lost fingers and toes to the same mountain, felt indescribable happiness. Don Whillans turned to drinking and bar brawling, which were also his pastimes before his momentous partnership with Joe Brown. Brown opened a climbing shop in Wales. Herzog became a politician. Lachenal skied into a crevasse.

Jim Bridwell died of complications from a tattoo he got in Borneo.

Catherine Destivelle married and had a son, Victor, dearer to her than climbing. Robyn Erbesfield married Didier Raboutou and had two prodigious children. Ron Kauk doubled for the actress Janine Turner.

Lynn Hill taught David Letterman how to belay. ā€œDo most guys when they climb wear ties?ā€ Letterman asked her. Albert Mummery collaborated on an economics text that argues for government regulation of private economic spheres. Sylvester Stallone adapted John Longā€™s novella, and Josune Bereziartu sold insurance. Fritz Wiessner shilled F. H. Wiessner Wonder Red Wax for skis.

Fred Beckey never stopped. Nor did Wiessner. ā€œYou must be climbing pretty good,ā€ exclaimed an aged Wiessner to a cocky kid who had soloed the route they were climbing together. Then Wiessner, on lead, climbed the next pitch without placing one piece of protection. ā€œI must be climbing pretty good, too, eh?ā€ he said.

Vandals broke holds in Little Cottonwood Canyon, and Meadowlark Lemon was chipped. Rock art in Arches was bolted over to aid disabled climbers. Ice claimed Lakeview. A storm toppled Beach Crack. The Gendarme fell over as expected. ā€œI have never stayed for such a short period on a summit,ā€ said one climber. The National Park Service introduced a climbing permit system in Yosemite.

The Adirondack orogeny continues, but the Rockies are eroding, ā€œfor dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return,ā€ blown to the plains of Kansas. Eurasia will crash into North America, and in Spain mountains rise. A swelling sun will torch the earth, and the Milky Way will collide with Andromeda with minimal damage. The universe will convert its matter into heat and cool, black holes will evaporate, and, in the infinite darkness, time will stop. Without time, Penrose says, distance has no meaning, and that which is vast will be indistinguishable from, will in fact be, that which is small.

From such a compact nothing, it may begin again. All of it. Volver. To return.

Nothing dies as slowly as a scene, writes Richard Hugo. Gyms close. Friends move or move on. People uncouple. Bodies, like old cars, no longer feel trusted to the task. It hurts just as much as it is worth, says the novelist Julian Barnes to the novelist Zadie Smith. I climb now with a friend whose ambition exceeds his competence. ā€œWhat if something happens up there?ā€ I ask. ā€œWhat if you need to self-rescue?ā€

ā€œIā€™ll look it up on YouTube. Why?ā€ he says.

I am often frightened. I ask myself whether any of it, whatever climbing has become for me, is worth it anymore. I do not know. I really donā€™t.

I wonder how it will end.

To read more fromĢżAscent, visit the table of contents .

The post How Do Climbing Careers End? appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

A sharp buzzing noise in my ear jolted me to attention. Iā€™d been content, hiking in a catatonic state with skis on my back for miles out of the Mount Whitney basin. But the mosquitos had risen before the sun, and at 4 A.M. on a late-June morning, I was breakfast.

I could have been anywhere that summer morning, but I had chosen to chase yet another day of skiing in the high peaks.

I live for winter, and every year my mood improves in November when the flakes begin to fall. Subsequently, my seasonal depression tends to set in right around mid-June, when the sun angle is high and its rays turn skiable snow into an uncomfortable three-dimensional pump track. A common refrain in the Eastern Sierra where I live is folks come for the winter and stay for the summer. But Iā€™m four years in and that never quite clicked for me.

My summer weekends are filled with angst and indecision. Once a passionate climber, I now spend much less time on the granite peaks and domes above my home. Infrequency and atrophy have winnowed my desire to ascend steep rock and have replaced my old excitement with fear and doubt. Mountain biking in my townā€™s dusty and expensive bike park never quite scratches the itch of playing in the big mountains. Hiking without an objective or a technical element leaves me feeling aimless and empty. Instead, I choose to keep waxing my skis long after most of the snow has been vaporized by the summer sun. I’ll throw them in the back of my car and quest into the highest reaches of the Sierra well into July. I’m starting to think that skiing in the high peaks is all I knowā€”that I’ve forgotten how to behave in a society that values summer. I know I’m crazy, but I just can’t stop.

What I crave is the slow plod skyward of a steep bootpack, feeling the secure crunch of crampons sinking into nĆ©vĆ©. I need to all but disappear in a massive alpine cirque, dwarfed by walls of granite and ice. Winterā€™s sky holds a different blue that ebbs away to a muddled June gray, and I find myself scratching around, desperately seeking a way to get it back.

So, there I found myself, kicking up dust, trying to beat back the summer blues by hauling my skis all the way up to 14,000 feet above sea level to squeeze the last drop out of winter. My fiancĆ©e Rita and I had poached camping in the Whitney Portal, usurping a spot that someone had reserved and abandoned like scrappy hermit crabs. Our alarm rang at 2 A.M. to a collective sigh of reliefā€”neither of us had slept a wink. Our anticipation got the best of us and we frittered away much-needed shuteye in favor of visualizing the trail and the sunrise.

Fueled by Oreos and a resolute desire to hold onto spring, we packed up our tent, slurped a cup of cold coffee, and somnambulated toward the trailhead. Mount Irvine (13,786 feet) and its brother Mount Mallory (13,851 feet) tower over the town of Lone Pine. Skiing in the cirque between the pair of peaks was a fitting objective, our quixotic search for snow echoed the famous climberā€™s ā€œBecause it is thereā€ aphorism. We chuckled nervously that the cirque that houses the two peaks rarely sees any traffic, and we were skiing there almost exactly 100 years after Irvine and Mallory disappeared on Mount Everest.

A beam of light broke through the oppressive cloud of mosquitoes, and through it I was able to see the sunrise gracing the summit of Lone Pine Peak with alpenglow. It was just enough motivation to shake off the bugs and continue upward.

The inexorable lengthening of days as spring turns to summer spirals my sense of loss. Each day, the fingers of snow climb higher from the basin floor. Their melt mirrors my waning ability to find inspiration, adventure, and fun. Admittedly, this is a character flaw. I canā€™t seem to find anything to latch onto in the summer besides skiing, though all my friends have new and different passions. The heat, the mosquitos, the endless oppressive sunshine, all dim my drive to lose myself among my homeā€™s massive peaks. Iā€™d benefit greatly from a support group for wayward ski mountaineers.

We arrived at , which sits 3,000 feet beneath Mount Irvine, around 7:30 A.M., trying to arrive before couloir had time to soften. The lake still had lilypads of ice floating on its surface. Rita and I sat on a granite boulder, sunning ourselves like lizards in the morning sunlight. The morning was cool in the granite basin.

Setting a skin track toward Mount Irvineā€™s wide apron, I felt the swelter of the sun overstaying its welcome. Sweat began to stream sunscreen into my eyes. But when I took a moment to clear them, I was able to see the gift of my surroundings. Glorious golden granite soared over lush, grassy meadows. Turquoise lakes nestled among groves of old-growth whitebark pines. And yes, all of these features will be here in two months’ time when the last of the snow melts, but what will be gone is the arresting contrastā€”sparkling white streaks of snow are what make these drainages so special to me.

Maybe halfway up the couloir, it became clear that it was getting too hot, too fast. Fearing the consequences of a wet avalanche, Rita and I quickly transitioned and clicked into our skis. The sun cups were deep and the skiing was, frankly, bad, but we couldnā€™t help but laugh as we glided through the steep golden hallway, spraying slush in our wake.

It was clear then that our ski season was officially over. These errant chutes in the high country can only stay soft for so long. Soon theyā€™ll transition to ice and then, in their evanescent way, be gone altogether. Each weekend I say with some certainty that Iā€™m done skiing. Winter was good, spring was better, and now Iā€™ll have to make something new out of my summer. But when Friday rolls around, I start peeking at coverage in the high country, looking for strips of snow in the alpine that could provide a little spark of inspiration.

I want to recommit to climbing, force myself back on the sharp end of a rope and figure out how not to be scared again. I’ll take out my bike and learn to corner in deep sandā€”I have so much to learn and so far to progress. Next weekend I’ll make it happen.

As we made the slow slog back to the Portal I began to accept that winterā€™s final breath may have come and gone a few months ago, and spring was already on life support. Next weekend I’ll figure out how to be a citizen of summer. But this weekend you can find me once more at 14,000 feet tucking my crampons into my pack and staring down a narrow band of rotten snow, preparing, yet again, to drop in.

The post Summer Is Here and I’m Not Ready to Stop Skiing appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Unlike the Kumano Kodo, “³²¹±č²¹²Ōā€™s famous pilgrimage route and one of just two roads on the planet designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site, the Nakasendo is rarely known outside of the country.

Built at the start of the Edo period in the early 1600s, it connected the empire through its mountainous interior. The Nakasendo thrived for two and a half centuries, propelling trade along its cobbled path, before it was lost to history.

In its heyday, the Naksendo was 330 miles long and connected Kyoto to Edo (present day Tokyo), cutting southwest to northeast right in the center of the country. Along it were 69 post towns, each five or so miles apart, for travelers to stop, eat, and exchange goods. While the majority of the path is now covered by pavement, some stretches and original towns are well preserved, with wood buildings and traditional interiors, allowing visitors to travel 400 years back in time.

Wanting to do just that, I brought together a group of friends and professional runners, including a pair of U.S. Olympains Des Linden and Magda Boulet, and two accomplished 100-milers, Tim Tollefson and Ruth Croft, to run the most iconic stretch, from Nagoya to Matsumoto. This was a dream group that meshed easily because everyone felt a heightened passion for using running as a tool to explore a new place and new culture. Each day we would run about 20 miles, stopping at post towns, temples, and ramen shops, and each night weā€™d stay at an inn or onsen, soaking in natural hot springs to recover and prepare for the day ahead.

Route and Onsens

There are distinct pros and cons to building a route around a trail that was built 400 years ago. The Nakasendo lends itself to the type of runner that wants to get more out of the experience than just putting one foot in front of the other. It has a deep history and rich folklore, good food and traditional inns, and sections that are remote and beautiful. These sections whisk you back in time to the Edo period, experiencing what it was like to travel on foot along the ancient postal route.

However, if youā€™re just looking for the absolute best trail running in Japan, the Nakasendo should be fairly low on your list. Itā€™s a jumbled mix of trails, rural roads, streets, and highways, without a ton of continuity thanks to new development. Expect a good amount of road running to get to the iconic trail sections and a lack of fluidity on some days. That said, after a hundred miles of the trail, I still think itā€™s totally worth it.

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Our route passed through four well preserved post towns, Tsumago, Magome, Fukushima, and Narai, near dozens of temples and shrines, with ample opportunities to stay at traditional inns and onsens along the way. This was a huge highlight that allowed us to tap into Japanese culture, while recovering for more miles the next day. Sometimes we would even get up early in the morning to soak again.

To average 20-plus miles each day, we used the support of a luggage transfer service to move our bags to the next accommodation. This allowed us to run just water, snacks, and spare layers, making the experience much more enjoyable. If you consider following this route, I would highly consider this option.

Navigation on the route itself is a mixed bagā€”some of it is marked well, while other parts are almost non-existent. I would recommend downloading GPX files and being comfortable with a navigation app like Gaia before you head out on the Nakasendo.

Flights and Trains

Following the worst of the pandemic in November 2022, Japan re-opened their borders to foreigners and Japan has become easy to travel to. Our group rendezvoused at the Haneda airport, then spent a day in the city to explore the famous fish market, eat ramen, and recover from the jet lag. While we could have stayed longer, we decided to maximize our time on the Nakasendo.

From Tokyo, it is easy and affordable to take high speed trains to other cities around the country, including our start and end points. The ride to Nagoya took a couple hours and the return trip from Matsumoto was about the same. If I were to run the Nakasendo again, I wouldnā€™t change any of our logistics. The trains saved us the cost of a rental car, learning to drive on the left side, and the hassle of shuttling it daily.

Weather and Wildlife

We visited Japan in the fall, hoping for cool running temps, fewer tourists, and autumn colors. This decision paid dividends, with most days ranging from low 40s to the high 60s, ample availability at many inns and onsens, and vibrant leaf colors, especially in the high country.

We started our run near sea level and topped out in the mountains around 4,000 feet. While fall often brings unpredictable weather to the Japanese Alps, that was not the case during our trip.

Weā€™d been advised to pack a raincoat for the high likelihood of storms, but ended up never using them. With nearly perfect running conditions for the duration of the trip, we were able to slow down and savor the tea houses, temples, and ramen stops along the way. Also, while there were quite a few warning signs for bears, and we saw many hikers with bear bells, we didnā€™t spot any ourselves and were later told by a local guide that they no longer exist so far south in the Japanese Alps.

Permits and Fees

Running the Nakasendo takes a good amount of planningā€”which is tricky if youā€™re not fluent in Japaneseā€”but does not require any permits or entry fees. ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų of the major cities in Japan, English isnā€™t super common even at restaurants and stores, so be prepared to use tools like Google Translate to get by. Much of the Nakasendo is through the rolling countryside, where youā€™ll meet more locals than other hikers or runners, but again, it can be hard to interact with many of them. A few of the post towns are very popular tourist destinations, but long stretches of the Nakasendo feel almost forgotten in time.

RELATED: 8 Essential Tips for Trail-Running Travel

Gear That Worked

: Wanting to pack as light as possible, I opted for one pair of travel-around-town shoes and one pair of running shoes. Therefore, I needed something that would be versatile, durable, and comfortable for big days. The Ultraflyā€”yes, the new carbon-plated race-oriented shoeā€”proved it could be a do-it-all travel shoe, providing enough grip on the trail sections without making long stretches of pavement miserable. No blisters, no falls. Iā€™ll take it.

: Not knowing when and where weā€™d stop for lunch every day, I packed a healthy amount of snacks in my running back. While I generally prefer savory things like chips, on this trip I found myself gluttonously feasting on stroopwafels, a Dutch-style treat that acts like a gel but tastes like breakfast.

: As someone who regularly runs with a full-frame camera, large first aid kit, spare layers, InReach, and hordes of snacks, I tend to opt for larger-volume packs. That said, I also try to find packs that donā€™t feel like a shifty monkey on my back. My go-to is the Slope Runner, which can carry up to 18 liters and be cinched down snug and secure on your back.

: While itā€™s not light enough to bring on a true backcountry trip, the Theragun Mini is the perfect tool for travel trips like this one. To be clear, we didnā€™t carry it during the day, but did enjoy having it at night to speed up recovery, reduce soreness, and make sure my quads didnā€™t completely fall off trying to keep up with this group of superhuman runners.

The post Running the Nakasendo, an Ancient Postal Route Across the Japanese Alps appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Natasha ā€œTashiā€ Smith is a self-described ā€œunprofessionalā€ athlete and member of the Ebony Beach Club, a group committed to introducing more Black people to the ocean through beach parties and surf lessons. An avid surfer and travelerā€”you can find her on and and she appears in the film ā€”she chases waves up and down the California coast in her van and regularly makes international trips to explore different cultures. Smith is passionate about teaching people that there are no age or cultural restrictions on being active in sports and activities. Her essay below is excerpted from Been ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų: ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶųs of Black Women, Nonbinary, and Gender Nonconforming People in Nature, edited by Shaz Zamore and Amber Wendler, out this month from .Ģż

ā€œThey’re Just Activitiesā€

Before I say that I am anything, I must first declare that I am Black. I am a Black woman, a Black skateboarder, a Black motocross rider…the list goes on. I love the distinction. It means that no matter what, I am never plain, and I am always adding to the list. Black surfer is one of my newest titles, and my favorite. I think the universe was saving that one for just the right time.

On my first visit to California, I wanted to experience as much of the place as possible. I took a surfing lesson and had a great time but didnā€™t actually get it. When I got home to Virginia Beach, my dirt bike broke and, to be honest, I wasnā€™t that interested in fixing it. It was hotter than usual that summer, and a lot of my friends werenā€™t riding regularly. The instructor had mentioned Costco had surfboards for $100, so I picked one up.

I spent that whole summer at the beach. Several times each week, I packed my surfboard into my car early in the morning and drove out there. The surf community at my first beach was small. By the time I started to figure out surfing, I knew all the other surfers by name. They taught me a lot and encouraged me to try surfing in California. A year and a half later, I found myself sitting in a van on the Pacific coast, surfing more than I was working, and living well. A ninety-minute surf lesson at Pleasure Point had changed my entire life.

When I talk to Black people about surfing, one of their first questions is how I got into such a predominantly white activity. The brief story I just shared always feels too simple. There should have been a beloved teacher or family adventure, but really it was just me with a Groupon on a work trip. When I thought of California, I thought of surfing, so it felt like a natural decision. My race and gender have never affected whether I pursue a new hobby or project. Before my lesson, I never thought about the fact that I would be the only Black person in the water that day. The only thing on my mind was how cold the water might be in April (and I was right to be concerned). I quickly learned the difference between the chilly, peaky waves of the Pacific and the warm, mushy Atlantic I was used to.

Virginia Beach is a really big town that spans from a newer downtown to the touristy oceanfront, then winds through some pretty countryside that touches North Carolina and all the way up to Norfolk, home of the largest naval base in the world. I grew up near the tourist area, so we dealt with the yearly influx of people from the north and west seeking a coastline. With the community being home to a lot of high-ranking government and military officials, as well as the poor leftover Confederates, misogyny and racial tension swirled through constantly.

I was fortunate enough to maintain a childlike naĆÆvetĆ© about the effects of race until much later in life. I tended to blame any negative attention on the fact that I was a girl. Now, when people ask if I feel safe as the only Black person at the beach, I almost have to laugh. I grew up racing motocross in the backwoods of the Southern states, so the beaches of California are far from the most challenging racial environment Iā€™ve ever had to navigateā€”and I used to do it without a second thought. Iā€™ve slept in many homes that had Confederate flags stamped with Southern pride hanging in the garage. I just figured we needed a new flag for Southern pride because I knew I couldnā€™t fly that one.

Because of that type of social ineptitude, I never know if Iā€™m qualified to give advice on starting new things. The biggest part of starting a new hobby is simply getting over the anxiety of participating. I know I canā€™t just say donā€™t think about that, but thatā€™s what I do. Once my helmet is on or my wetsuit is zipped, I shouldnā€™t be thinking about whoā€™s looking, because I have to do a thing. Focusing on bettering myself a little each time attracts positivity from other people. Iā€™ve also realized that many altercations start because a beginner does not realize theyā€™re in the way. I always focus on learning how to stay out of the way first because of motocross. If youā€™re not going as fast, stay to the right. Hold a predictable line. If you fall, do your best to get off the track. These are things that keep the more experienced riders from landing on you.

Similar rules apply to snow sports and other sports where people of different experience levels share the same course. Learning how to be predictable can help maintain the vibe and make it a little easier for you to figure everything else out. Lessons and camps are my favorite ways to start new things because Iā€™m someone elseā€™s responsibility. Theyā€™ll tell me right from wrong until eventually Iā€™m comfortable navigating it on my own. And thereā€™s very little chance Iā€™ll get yelled at.

Thatā€™s not to say that each reaction is not influenced by prejudices. Iā€™ve seen the same infractions, such as dropping in on someone elseā€™s wave, but people of different demographics get different responses in the session. When I find myself in those situations, I try to think of it as lightly as possible. I donā€™t have the energy for hate, so Iā€™ll make an empathetic analysis of their actions, telling myself they donā€™t have the coping skills they need, so that I can go back to focusing on whatever I wanted to do that day. Even if there is a bad interaction, I can always find some small victory at the end of each session if I at least participated. If the surf is bigger than Iā€™m comfortable with, I donā€™t even make it a point to ride a set wave. I will take the small victory of having made the paddle out, and if I catch a bigger wave, cool.

Small victories lead to eventual success. I have plenty of sports-related testaments to this statement, but building out my van is a more universal example. I didnā€™t actually know how to build anything before I got my van. A strong base of knowledge in Legos made me the family furniture constructor, but I had no freehand carpentry experience. The first bed in my van was a piece of plywood on Ikea table legs. My dog has only recently become brave enough to sit on its much sturdier replacement while I drive because it used to flip over when I hit the brakes hard.

Once again, persistence and focus on the task at hand brought the right people to meā€”a small victory. One day while I was working on the van in a parking lot, a hardware store employee who was collecting carts taught me how to build a basic box frame and how to brace it. From there, I built it over and over, better each time, until I had the home on wheels that I wrote this piece in. There were many small victories and some defeats, too, and I donā€™t know if any project of mine is ever truly finished, but Iā€™m glad I didnā€™t save up and let a company do it for me. After all those small victories, I gained a wealth of knowledgeā€”and a van. Iā€™m proud of it and everything I do in it, and I can develop and specialize it for any of my new interests.

I hope some of this resonates with someone out there. I hope you can remember to just focus on the task when you start to feel peopleā€™s eyes on you. I hope you can excuse some weaker-minded person in the moment so that you can maintain your focus. I hope you choose happiness whenever itā€™s available. I will say a million times: if you have ever seen anyone do anything that you thought looked fun, you are just as human as they are and you have every right to try it out too. And if you like it, I hope you share it with someone else who didnā€™t think they could do it either.

Natasha “Tashi” Smith is still chasing waves in her van and enjoys surfing, motocross, skateboarding, mountain biking, and most other sports that involve motion. She has a devoted following on .

The post ā€œBlack Surferā€ Is Natasha Smith’s Favorite Title appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Our boots were crunching down a snowy sidewalk while meandering our way to a concert in Aspen, Colorado this January. We walked slowly, waiting on a few friends to catch up, and got to talking about gearā€”standard mountain town first date stuffā€”when something sparked and we locked into a bewitched eye gaze for a moment that floated in suspension outside the confines of time. As we came back down to earth, my new crush shared, with a soft voice and coy smile, her plans to thru-hike the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) this summer for five months.

ā€œI remember a look of genuine excitement for me flashing across your face, along with a tinge of heart drop,ā€ Maddie recalls, knowing what that look meant. ā€œI had my own internal dialog of ā€˜Dang, Iā€™m set on doing this and not changing my mind,ā€™ but also felt a hint of sadness and my stomach dropped a bit knowing that it would mean us being apart for a while.ā€

Even though weā€™d only met a few weeks before, something told her that, more so than everyone else with whom she shared this news, breaking it to me would carry some extra weight.

Maddieā€™s intuition was right. I spent the entire night with my eyes fixed on her more than the band weā€™d come to see. Days later, we traded our hippie dance clothes for technical outerwear and skis to run powder laps in the Deep Temerity trees at Aspen Highlands. I loved that I could barely keep up with her. Within a short amount of time, we jumped full-steam into a relationshipā€”we met parents and planned international trips together, our toothbrushes stood proud next to each other on respective bathroom sinks. With the clock ticking until her departure date, our time together was marked by a sense of urgency to squeeze in as much as we could while knowing that it would make the pending separation even more abrupt. We swung between timid dread and overcompensatory optimism, but didnā€™t really have any kind of plan in place for what this would look like beyond surrendering to the unknown. This may have been a mistake, but not an uncommon one.

Thru-Hiking Solo Is Hard for Everyone

Isaac ā€œBlouseā€ Nesbit met his future fiancĆ©e, Kelsey, on Tinder in late 2018. Within the first ten messages, he disclosed that he was planning to quit his job as a mechanical engineer that summer to hike the Appalachian Trail (AT). She was in graduate school for mental health counseling at Clemson University in Greenville, South Carolina, where they both lived, and they entered the relationship with a five-month expiration date in mind. They didnā€™t even talk about what to expect during his AT hike until three days before he left. ā€œWe loved each other and didnā€™t want to break up, so we decided right then to go for it with no plan,ā€ says Kelsey.

ā€œI had some guilt leaving her behind, but itā€™s got to be easier for those of us on trail because we have so much stimulus all day,ā€ says Blouse, who packed his bag again in 2022 to attempt a calendar year triple crown of the AT, PCT, and Continental Divide Trail (CDT). While the partner getting left behind will inevitably deal with some FOMO, the hiker has to confront their own feelings of disconnected helplessnessā€”like when Kelsey was in a car wreck and Blouse couldnā€™t be there to help support her through any of it.

Or it might be the reverse. Tara Dower, who hiked the Appalachian Trail in 2019 with her husband, Jonathan, before he joined the Navy, left him behind when she set Fastest Known Times (FKTs) on North Carolinaā€™s Ģżin 2020 and the Benton MacKaye Trail (from Georgia to Tennessee) in 2022. ā€œIā€™d call him up at times in excruciating pain,ā€ she says. ā€œHe was in a different state and couldnā€™t do anything while I was crying. He had to soothe me over the phone in a way that was really different than when we were on the AT together. When he told me how helpless this felt for him, I had to change my M.O. and stop calling him every time things got really tough.ā€

Maggie Slepian was dating Jeff Garmire when he set the Colorado Trail record in 2020, and her current partner is a ski guide in Japan. Slepian is often gallivanting about the world’s trails too, however, and reminds herself why sheā€™s attracted to people who share her adventurous spirit and values. ā€œItā€™s important to keep an open, positive mindset about this kind of thing because itā€™s easy for resentment to set in and to feel like their adventure is more important than spending time with me,ā€ she says. ā€œTo combat this toxic mindset, I have to accept it as part of the deal that thereā€™s a reason Iā€™ve called in this type of partner.ā€

Face the Feeling of Being Left Behind Head-On

For me, this part required some soul searching. After our high concentration of quality time in ski season capped off by an epic volcano climbing and skiing trip to Ecuador in April, Maddie and I were feeling incredibly close and connected as her PCT departure date approached in early May. This was hard for both of us, but I noticed in myself what felt like an even greater challenge: the unfamiliarity of being left behind. I’ve always been the one in the relationship getting dropped off at the airport by a teary eyed partner staying home for work or life or other reasons while I rip out on an adventure somewhere new, chasing stories and thrills and life-affirming experiences. I’ve even decided that venturing out, solo or not, is so much sweeter when you know in the back of your mind that you have a steady home and person to return to when the trip is over.

But always having a partner waiting at home had its drawbacks: some jealousy on their end and maybe a little less reverence on mine for not being with someone whose own adventures I admired and longed to share. Those tables have turned and now I’m with someone who has solo traveled to places not even on my radar and ticked off bucket-list items of which I’ve only dreamed. Indeed, this sense of equality is highly attractive to me and feels more balanced, except for this major caveat: Suddenly, Iā€™m the one waiting for phone calls any day or week when Maddie finds some spotty service and a few minutes to distill all of her new experiences into a brief, choppy FaceTime chat, her clothes a little dirtier and her face more sunburned each time. I’m the one going to dinner parties as the ninth wheel with other couples asking where my partner is and what she’s up to and, without fail, when I’ll go join her, because surely that’s an option, right?

Plan Ahead for Communication and Meetups

Just about any couple who’s been through this will tell you that having a plan is pretty essential, specifically around visiting and communication. Kelsey visited Blouse four times on his first AT hike, joining his visiting ā€œtrail angelā€ parents, with whom she spent more time than she did Blouse those five months. ā€œTrail visits are important,ā€ she says. ā€œSome people donā€™t like to because it feels so awful for both parties when you leave, but itā€™s worth it.ā€ She also finds that being involved as a support systemā€”mailing resupply boxes along the way or booking hotels for him when he gets to townā€”feels good and important to be involved in the process.

She also recommends having talks ahead of time about how to handle things that inevitably come up when either is having a hard day and what youā€™ll need to feel connected. ā€œHaving regular check-ins on the trail is importantā€”ā€™How are we doing?ā€™ ā€˜Whatā€™s working and whatā€™s not?ā€™ ā€˜What are we needing?ā€™ā€”allowing yourselves to be more blunt than when youā€™re in person and have the luxury of nuance.ā€

While some partners do better staying connected and others might deal with the separation more effectively by being semi avoidant, Kelsey and Blouse agree that itā€™s best not to wait until you see each other with limited time to process tough conversations. Rather, tend to that along the way. That time together goes by way too quickly.

Advice for Thru-Hikers Leaving Loved Ones in the Dust

Managing expectations around communication is also crucial. Itā€™s helpful for the partner at home to have an idea of when your next conversation will be or when to expect a text letting them know all is well. Satellite communication devices like the Garmin inReach Mini 2 and the new inReach Messenger have really changed that and made messaging much more available. But on the flip side, respecting the hiking partnerā€™s time in nature is just as vital. ā€œIf youā€™re making time to talk during whatā€™s meant to be a spiritual experience immersing yourself in nature, to expect to be in constant communication might take away from that experience,ā€ says Dower. It turns out that rest days, known as ā€œzero days,ā€ are full of chores and laundry and food shopping and not just lounging around in a hammock, chatting on the phone all day. Itā€™s easier to empathize with these realities when a partner visits the hiker and sees what daily life is really like.

ā€œDefinitely have a plan to meet up at some point,ā€ says Naomi ā€œPunisherā€ Hedetz, a Triple Crown finisher of the AT, PCT, and CDT along with the Great Divide Trail, Grand Enchantment Trail, Pacific Northwest Trail, Arizona Trail, as well as the first known thru-hike of the Blue Mountains Trail and the Oregon Desert Trail. Before many of these hikes, she managed to get stuck at home working in 2010 while her husband, Mike, hiked the CDT without her.Ģż ā€œI provided trail support along the way, which was really helpful for me to come and meet the people he was hiking with and understand trail culture and be part of it in the smallest way, which made me understand what he needed to deal with food-wise and emotionally and mentally. I wouldnā€™t have gotten it if I hadnā€™t met him on trail.ā€

The Bottom Line: Itā€™s Doable, if You Do It Right

Initially, Maddie was hesitant to commit to any trail visits from me or other eager friends. Sheā€™s long had an idea in her head that this is her solo journey meant to test and strengthen her independence and didnā€™t want to make it about anyone elseā€™s experience, a sentiment I loved and loathed at the same time. I dealt with it in the best way I knew howā€”by heading down to Peru on my own solo journey for three weeks while working from airports, bus terminals, and hostels. It was an effective distraction, but I found myself jealous of other couples I saw traveling together and wishing I were on my way home to Maddie. After a few sporadic phone chats and a long period of disconnected silence while I was off-grid bopping through the jungle on an Amazon river boat, we connected for a chat on FaceTime, both of us quite sweaty and happy to share smiles. Weā€™d both experienced too much to recount in a single call, but sheā€™d also had a revelation that the experience sheā€™s having is simply too beautiful and magical to not share with me and she was gung-ho in wanting me to join her on the trail in Northern California after postponing the snow-blocked Sierras until later in the season. I couldnā€™t book my ticket fast enough.

The post How to Cope When Your Partner Is Thru-Hiking And Youā€™re Not appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

I clawed up the steep mountainside near LeĆ³n, , digging my fingernails into clay to steady my body, pitched forward under my pack.Ģż

Step, claw. Step, claw. Step. Heavy clouds threatened to downpour. Wind whipped tendrils of hair across my face.Ģż My rain jacket whispered softly. Sweat stung my eyes. burned. My lungs gasped. Focus, almost there.

ĢżIt was July, 2018 and I was 330 miles into the French Way of , a 560-mile blend of mountainous singletrack, pavement, farm road, and vineyard paths across Northern Spain. The Camino is actually a network of routes through Europe leading to Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain and originates from a 9th-century Catholic pilgrimage to pray at St. Jamesā€™s bones, allegedly buried in the cathedral there. In a normal year, some 300,000 people make the trek.

I didnā€™t embark on a pilgrimage, as millions do, for religious reasons. I was raised in a liberal Catholic household, and though I had an inherent understanding of the Caminoā€™s Christian context, I went for a life reset. As I approached 30, I was tired. Tired of noise and disconnection. Of forgetting what I ate for breakfast; rapid-fire emails; bowing to bosses; scrolling through peopleā€™s curated lives on social media. So, I quit my job in publishing to hike The Camino solo and contemplate lifeā€™s two fundamental questions: Who am I and why am I here? I knew, having hiked the final 60-mile stretch from Santiago de Compostela to Finisterre twice before, that it wasnā€™t a vacation. It was a soul-seeking journey. No one else could carry my pack, or walk the miles for me.Ģż

Like 186,198 other pilgrims walking the French Way that year, I carried a pilgrimā€™s passport. It became my most sacred possession, wrapped safely in plastic, tucked deep in my pack. A 70-something Frenchman had presented it to me when I registered my hike in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, France. Colorful ink stamps from the Caminoā€™s historic sites sprinkled the card-stockā€”testament to hundreds of miles on foot. To the Santiago Pilgrims Office, it would be proof enough to record my name on a Latin certificate saying I completed the trail. To me, it held memories, andĢż was my ticket to low-budget beds at pilgrim-reserved hostels.

For the entire 33-day trek, I carried only essentials and hiked 20-plus miles per day. Without a map (like most others), I followed yellow arrows and scallop-shell signposts marking the trail through rural villages, humming towns, crimson poppy fields, silver fir thickets, and rows of plump grapes.

Three weeks in, I began to understand why some refer to the Camino as a great metaphor for life. It hurt. At that point, I had hiked enough of the trail to know pain. Iā€™d been soaked by rain, pelted by hail, scorched by sun. Chapped lips, sunburn, sweat stains, voracious hunger, and eternal exhaustion were just side effects. Each stepā€™s pinch and bite promised blood between blistered toes. Time and distance under my packā€™s weight peppered bruises on my hips and collarbones. I became an expert in self-rehab. All pilgrims do. At each dayā€™s end, Iā€™d loosen my trail runners, peel wool socks from open sores, knead aching muscles, and fall into a six-hour coma. Then, repeat it the next day. Profanity muttered in foreign accents by my fellow pilgrims reminded me that pain is more universal than language.

But I also found joy, unearthing bliss in simple things: aromatic eucalyptus forests and rose-gold sunrises; a breeze and clouds that floated with me; sinks to rinse sweaty socks; duct tape and a wide-brimmed hat; soft black vineyard dirt; silence and salty French fries; rivers to soak swollen feet; cafƩ con leche. Most of all, joy came through connections with fellow pilgrims.

As the journey unfolded, my Camino crew formedā€”an IT manager from Sweden, an obstetrician from New Jersey, a university student from England, an opera singer from Pamplona, and a cancer survivor from Barcelona, among others. Small talk only lasts a mile or two. We hiked together for days, laughing, swearing, crying, sharing. To walk El Caminoā€”or any long pathā€”is to live a shared vulnerability. We cultivated intimate conversation unlike anything Iā€™ve experienced. We talked not of politics or profession, but of lifeā€™s joys and sorrows, speaking our truths, fears, darkest secrets, and innermost desires, free from judgement or pretense. In essence, we were walking naked.

On paper, we had little in common. And yet, we each came to the Camino to embrace deep, arduous, soul-changing work vital to self-actualization. Everyone was here to discover something, and in our shared humanity, the trailā€™s magic became clear: Though we were all broken, together we were somehow whole.

On day 21, with rain looming and no promise of sunrise, I pushed over the Montes de LeĆ³n to El Acebo, 7.5 miles from FoncebadĆ³nā€”the basecamp village where most pilgrims stop for the night to inhale pasta, slurp beer, and treat blisters.

Step, claw. Step, claw. Step. I stumbled as the ground evened out. Lifting my gaze, I finally saw it. Cruz de Ferro: a 3-foot-tall iron cross, mounted on a tall wooden pole marking El Caminoā€™s highest point, a sacred apex for many pilgrims. The cross was planted in a colossal mound of stones, ribbons, letters, weather-beaten pictures, prayer beads, extinguished candlesā€”tokens of pilgrims passed by.

Alone and grateful for a moment of silence, I unclipped my pack and set it down. My pilgrimā€™s scallop shell, tied to the outside, clacked on the ground. I climbed the pile and took six small stones from my pocket, one for each of my family members and me, pulled from the Eagle River in my Colorado backyard. I tore paper from my journal and scribbled prayers to the universe, then wrapped stones in my words, and set them down.Ģż

I rested my palm and forehead on the cool wood and inhaled. As I looked up at the cross it began to rain. It took me a moment to notice the taste in my mouth: a cocktail of mist, sunscreen, and salt. My heart felt full. I relished this peace as drizzle washed my cheeks. Then, I climbed carefully down the pile of intentions, hoisted my pack, and wished ā€œBuen Caminoā€ to two breathless pilgrims cresting the hill. I hiked on toward a warm meal, dry clothes, antiseptic spray, and dreamless rest in my cotton sleep sack.

Though historically Christian, the modern spirituality of El Camino doesnā€™t seem to hinge on doctrine or dogma. The path aligns with the Milky Way galaxy (used by medieval pilgrims to navigate the journey), and is considered a ā€œthin placeā€ā€”where the veil between Earth and cosmos feels translucent. Though Iā€™m not religious per se, I exercise my version of spirituality and The Way honored it.

The trek unfolded for me in three parts. Physically, during the first 179 miles from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Burgos, I learned to walk. My body hardened, bruises and blisters formed and healed. I slowed down and plugged into the present. Worries concerning my next meal or bed or career move faded. And my urgency to arrive in Santiago evaporated.

The middle section, 102 miles from Burgos to LeĆ³n, held the mental battle. For seven days, I crossed flat arid plains under beating sun where water was scarce. I chased a flat, endless horizon. ā€œYou better be OK with being in your own head,ā€ my brother, a three-time Camino pilgrim, had warned me. Thoughts came and went, and to my delight, I found freedom from past or future concerns. I simply was where I was.Ģż

The final stretch, 198 miles from LeĆ³n to Santiago, brought spiritual growth. As the miles melted, I found myself grieving the end the hike. I had grown accustomed to walking. To pain, joy, presence. But I also felt gratitude for the wisdom Iā€™d gained on the trail. It taught me that Iā€™m much stronger than I think I am. That life can be simple, if I make it so. That itā€™s important to slow down and smell the flowers; beauty is in people and details. That when I look for it, I can find kindness everywhere. I felt more authentically me than ever before.

I continued for three days and 70-some miles past Santiago to the Atlantic Ocean. It had taken me more than a month of blood and sweat to reach open water. In the final miles along a white-sand beach, I waded, reflecting on the peace I felt at Cruz de Ferro. The journey was the toughest, most fruitful thing Iā€™ve done. This is the common experience. The Camino is a deeply personal journey for all who attempt it, yet somehow still universal.

Since El Camino, Iā€™ve learned to keep moving. As with any pilgrimage, thereā€™s no training for life. It takes grit, humor, perseverance, and courage to live well, despite fear. Just as I did on The Way, I choose to walk on, even if it hurts, itā€™s uncomfortable, or desperately monotonous. These lessons form the kit of my life.Ģż

Its wisdom calls me daily to . To trust, find beauty, and be vulnerable. To share pain, joy, and connection. To, with practice, patience, faith, and grace, continue walking. Ģż

The post Breathe, Hike, Repeat: Finding Deeper Meaning on Spainā€™s Camino de Santiago appeared first on ŗŚĮĻ³Ō¹ĻĶų Online.

Andi Scarbrough told her story to producer Sarah Fuss Kessler for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I was done with the church. I was not on speaking terms with Jesus. We were not cool. I did not identify as that. I wouldn’t even say the word ā€œJesus.ā€ I just said ā€œthe Christā€ anytime I was talking about it.

I live in a weird geodesic dome home in the middle of the woods on the central Oregon coast. I’ve been a hairstylist for 21 years in Los Angeles, and grew up in the Piney Woods on the north side of Houston in Texas.

We were raised in an evangelical Christian Church. I mean, a layin’ on hands, a castin’ out demons. I can play the shit out of a tambourine. That was a big part not only of how we grew up, but also a greater sense of communal belonging. It was not a matter of ā€œDo you go to church?ā€ It was, ā€œWhich church do you go to?ā€

My mother’s father was a pastor. We’re actually descended from Scotch-Irish priests. So the tent revival goes all the way back across the Atlantic.

From my earliest memory, I questioned everything about the church. I loved the singing and I loved the food. But I found the rest of it really problematic. I was always a rebel and always asking questions, and that was really inflammatory. I took issue with the idea that some little girl in the Far East that had never heard of Jesus but lived a good life would go to hell. I refused to kneel for communion. That was a whole thing.

It also didn’t help that I was queer as hell and was sexually awakened at a young age. I remember getting kicked out of a slumber party when I was a kid for making out with one of the Baptist minister’s daughtersā€”in her closet of all places.

By the time I was 14, I was told that if I had so many questions, perhaps my time would be better spent in the library, because I was a disruption to the experience of the other people in church. There was a very inherent understanding that I was led to believe that I did not belong and was not welcome.

I was done with the church.

I’d been on my own from a very early age. I left home at 16. I’d been working. I’d already married a man, because that was the next thing that I was supposed to do. So I was deep in the throes of living life very much here on Earth, and had very little time to be concerned with God, spirit, source, however you wanna call it.

My father died suddenly and tragically by suicide. The day before he took his life, I realized that there was maybe an opportunity. He’d had a big shift in his experience, and I was anticipating a reunion. There was this feeling of, Oh, finally, a homecoming is waiting. And rather than be able to go home, it felt like that door closed forever.

All of that exoskeleton that I had built around this wound just cracked open. And then my marriage ended. That saying like, ā€œThere are no atheists in foxholes, right?ā€ When the need becomes so great, God was the only one that I thought could answer. But anything that I would identify as the church, I abjectly rejected.

So, it was a very thick four or five years. I had a very dear friend who lived in the Middle East, and I wanted to go and experience her life there. We planned some ventures into Lebanon and then Dubai.

I’d heard of the Cedars of Lebanon before. I think something that they would akin to like a national park, you know? So it’s protected and enclosed. It’s interesting that there’s like a military base on one side of it. I think there’s skiing there in the winter, but we were there in kind of an off season. So it was a quiet, sleepy resort town that also happened to have this ancient, sacred grove of trees that are mentioned, I think, 77 times in the Bible.

As soon as we walked into the grove of trees, there was an eerie sort of quiet. It seemed like we were all having a kind of internal experience, and there was a palpable sensation of time shifting and slowing. Everything just felt sweeter, my body felt heavier, and I felt more of my feet in contact with the ground. I heard every little sound, every little rustle felt magnified.

I learned that it takes a hundred years for those trees to even be mature enough to produce a coneā€”one was at least a thousand years oldā€”and so the humility of time and scope, and the breadth of these trees that were viscerally more alive and different than anything else that I’d experienced.

The next morning, I decided that I needed to walk down to the entrance of the park, and it was not open yet. So, I decided to go and wait by the gate for them to open. And I realized quickly from the hours posted that I wouldn’t actually be able to get back into the park before we had to leave. I was really upset about it. I remember having this feeling of estrangement or longing. I was so frustrated that I was right there and couldn’t get in. I had a good ugly cry about it. And then I posted up on a little stone wall where I had a nice view of this one specific tree that I loved, that was especially battered and old.

As I sat, the light was changing as the sun was coming up, and I noticed from the corner of my eye this little old man opening one of his shops. Then, before I knew it, he was coming over to me, speaking to me in a language I didn’t understand. Later, I learned he was Turkish. He brought me this little Dixie paper cup full of hot tea, and just set it down beside me. Then sort of teetered away back to his little shop.

A moment later, he brought me a little cup of cream and a cup of little cubes of sugar and just set it down beside me, and then teetered away. Then he came back with a cookie, and put the little cookie down beside me and then teetered away. Then, he came back with his own cup, and just sat down beside me.

He looked at me, and he recognized whatever it was that was moving in me, and he gave me the sweetest smile. He dipped his cookie in the tea, showing me how to do it. And so I did. And as the light was changing, and I was sitting on the stone wall outside of this grove of trees, that felt like the purest experience of God as vitality, as connection, as the enduring life force.

Here was this old man that had brought me what was essentially holy communion, and I remember dipping that little cookie into the tea, and thinking, This is the connection. This is the belonging that I have been looking for my whole life.

I managed to suss out that he had left Turkey not necessarily intending to stay, but had come to the trees and had such an experience that he felt like he had to stay there.

Heā€™d invited me into his morning ritual. He came and sat down with his tea and communed with the trees every day. We both had tears in our eyes, just in the recognition of something so holy and old and ineffable.

As we finished our tea and sat, I knew that my friends were gonna be driving down the hill any moment to pick me up. He walked with me over to his little shop, and he gifted me one of the cones from the cedars. He pulled out this box of photos of all of these people that he had sat with. Some of them I could tell by the hair were at least from the early eighties.

There were so many things that shifted for me after this experience. It helped me really begin to reconcile my relationship with God; redefine a force that I’d felt was so punishing, and open up space to find the loving, allowing, creative life force energy.

Fast forward a few years, and here I am, living in the woods on the Oregon coast with these great-grandmother maples and the evergreens, while I go to school for a degree in religious studies and sociology, so that I can ultimately serve as a chaplain. And offer, I hope, some fraction of the space that that old man in Lebanon offered me.

Andi Scarbrough has been recognized by L.A. Weekly as one of the city’s top hair colorists. She lives part-time in Oregon, and is working towards becoming a chaplain. Follow her on Instagram .

You can followĢżThe Daily RallyĢżonĢż,Ģż,Ģż, or wherever you like to listen. and to be featured on the show.

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Marinel de Jesus shared her story with producer Stepfanie Aguilar for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It was edited for length and clarity.

When I got to Mongolia in late February of 2020, everyone was in panic. I got the news that the borders shut down completely.ĢżThat was the first time in my life as an avid traveler Iā€™ve heard someone say the country shut down. My brain couldnā€™t even process that.ĢżHow am I gonna get out? Whatā€™s gonna happen to me?

I was born in the Philippines. I migrated to the U.S. when I was 13, and I lived my life there. And now Iā€™m a global mountain nomad. There are two things Iā€™m very passionate about: one is advocacy, and the second is living in the mountains and hiking and walking and just being in the outdoors.

So I flew to Mongolia late February of 2020, and I got the news that the borders were shutting down [due to the pandemic]. And the embassy was shut down, too.

Solo Trekking in Mongolia During COVID-19

I was the only tourist that I know in this little town called Bayan-Ɩlgii. Thereā€™s about 30,000 local people who spoke Kazakh, the majority didnā€™t speak English. It was winter, and it was cold, and it was dry. So I was really nervous, and there was a part of me that wanted to be wishfully thinking, Oh, this is nothing. In a week Iā€™m gonna go back. And I even told myself, Oh, how long is my visa in Mongolia? They give you 90 days. I have 90 days to get home. Iā€™ll be fine. But then I also had an apartment back in Peru. I had obligations. I had two cats that I needed to take care of.

Iā€™ve never been stranded in a country where I was by myself. I might get sick. I might die alone in Mongolia. I might go to the hospital and not see my family again, I thought. I gotta go home. I gotta go home.

I spent a lot of time sitting in my hotel room, because it was so cold outside. And I think the scariest part of this journey, really, is the idea of solitude. Iā€™ve done a lot of solo treks before I became a nomad.ĢżI started going back to what I know bestā€”to talk to myself. I would just sort of try to relax myself, calm myself down. Maybe, you know, close my eyes, take a nap. I started asking, How do I feel? What am I afraid of? And what can I do to go with the flow?

And so I decided Iā€™m going to start counting the days when I go home, when I go back to where I came from, when Iā€™m gonna get out of Mongolia. So I started counting and I said, OK, whatā€™s the day? Oh, this is already day ten. And how long will it take for me to get out here? And Iā€™m thinking, Maybe on day 20, itā€™ll be done. On day 30, itā€™ll be done. But the days kept going. Itā€™s like day 40, day 50. And then one day, it was day 100.

Every time I counted, I always saw something so good in the day that I forgot that I was in panic mode. I was worried that I was stuck in Mongolia when I woke up in the morning. And by counting the day, the first thing subconsciously Iā€™m acknowledging is that Iā€™m alive and Iā€™m well. Iā€™m healthy. I can breathe. And I have this nice bed and, hey, Iā€™m COVID-free. And Mongolia doesnā€™t have a case yet.ĢżCounting the day was the start to a routine of appreciation.

At some point, the government opened things up a little bit more. And so I ended up taking buses, local transports, and moving around a little bit. I walked around the village and the little place that I was in. Even though I was a complete outsider, I was the only foreigner they had. So I just walked around and explored my area. I went to Ulaanbaatar. I went to the north. I went to see different parts of the country.

As a hiker, you already go with the flow, right? You hike and you go with the flow with the weather. You go with the flow with the trail. But going with the flow being a stranded traveler, thatā€™s a different kind of flow. Because itā€™s for an indefinite period of time, and I had no idea when itā€™s gonna end.

What if Iā€™m stuck in another situation? Letā€™s say itā€™s a tough place to be in, or a life situation, Iā€™ll just count the days. This is day one of dealing with this.

And then I just trusted that, you know, my cats are gonna be fine. That Iā€™m gonna be home one day, but itā€™s just a matter of time. Two hundred and ninety-four days later, I realized, you know what home is? Itā€™s just where you feel safe and comfortable and accepted and welcomed. And Mongolia gave me that.

By the time I left, I cried so hard. I cried because I realized Mongolia was home, and it was silly of me to always have this in my head where Iā€™m telling myself, I gotta go home, I gotta go home. And in the end, I said to myself, But Marinel, youā€™re already home.

Marinel de Jesus runs ; , a mission-focused mountain-trekking enterprise; and the , where she advocates for human rights of porters and mountain-expedition workers in Peru, Nepal, and Tanzania.

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Emmie Sperandeo shared her story with producer Tanvi Kumar for an episode of The Daily Rally podcast. It was edited for length and clarity.

It was just this insane experience where Iā€™m nervous and this horse is nervous and Iā€™m on a completely different continentā€”like the other side of the world. I have to accept the fact that this is just all out of my comfort zone, and Iā€™m going to do it anyway.

I grew up in central Florida. I had never left the continent before, and I havenā€™t traveled internationally much. I never had the confidence or money or time to do it before.

I traveled to Namibia for the month of April and went to go work on a ranch out there. I got there and was walking around with one of the ranchers one day. And theyā€™re like, thereā€™s this wild horse. Heā€™s young, two, but heā€™s a stallion. He came in with their herd and just kind of joined their ranch horse herd. And she was like, if we can get him in a pen, this is your project while youā€™re here. You can train with that horse. And I was like, I donā€™t know if Iā€™m even qualified for this. You sure?

Itā€™s definitely not normal for a wild horse to choose to be domesticated, which is what makes this story kind of unique and funny. But it is normal for a horse to eventually get kicked out of their herd when theyā€™re a young stallion, because the older stallion is going to say itā€™s time to go. Basically a parent kicking their kid out of the house. And if theyā€™re not strong enough when theyā€™re out on their own, especially in that landscape and with that wildlife, theyā€™re not going to survive. And he ended up just bonding with the horses at the ranch and just stuck around and went into the pasture with them one day and never left. He could have left many times, and he just decided to hang out.

I named him Kibo. Itā€™s a peak in Africa, because Kibo had a mountain range on his neck. He was a paint horse, so he had all of these really beautiful markings and some of the markings looked like a pointy mountain range, like a peak.

I had never worked with a wild horse before, and especially one thatā€™s used to such different wildlife than the wild horses in the U.S. Theyā€™re super reactive and ready to fight all the time.

I wasnā€™t even sure if I could do it. I was the first human interaction this horse has ever had. So I had to make sure he was okay with a human being that close to him. Basically, I had prepared him the best I could, but I also didnā€™t have a whole lot of time, like 30 days. I would usually take a lot longer for that whole process, but I only had a month there.

I donā€™t consider myself a horse trainer, but Iā€™ve trained horses. And Iā€™m always nervous for that first ride, just because you can prepare them as best as you can, but itā€™s also a really unpredictable situation. Itā€™s frankly dangerous. And I knew in my head that I was eight hours from a hospital on the other side of the world, and that really added to the anxiety. But I knew that it was something I had to do.

I got on him and kind of started going through the motions of what we had been practicing on the ground, which is like, move your hind end for me, flex your neck around, be soft in the halter. Then we worked on forward movement. It was going really well, but he just spooked at one point when I pet his neck while I was on him. Thatā€™s something that he needs to get used to, so it was necessary to touch him and get him used to everything going on above him where Iā€™m out of his line of vision. But for a wild horse whose number one predator is a leopard, their first thought is, oh, a leopard is attacking my neck. So he spooked, and I just flew off and landed right on my tailbone. I immediately knew it was fractured. But I think overall it was still really good first ride.

Getting Back on the Horse

I got on him again the day before I flew out because I didnā€™t want my last ride on him to be me getting hurt.

It was one of those lessons that taught me that I can do really hard things.

I was never even one to want to travel that much because I just got so in my head about it and didnā€™t really like to take risks because I didnā€™t trust that Iā€™d be able to handle a lot of situations. And not that I hadnā€™t been in them necessarily, but I never even let myself try in a lot of circumstances: try to figure it out, try to get myself out of those situations. I was always just waiting for somebody to save me. And itā€™s the same kind of thing as where I was waiting for somebody to go with me and to start traveling the world.

Weā€™re all capable of way more than we think, and way more than we give ourselves credit for. Thatā€™s something that people say to me all the time. Theyā€™re like, no, I could never do that. Iā€™m like, youā€™d be amazed at what you can do if you just give yourself the opportunity.

I donā€™t like think about the poetic phrasing of the things that I use to hype myself up a lot, but I just always tell myself: itā€™ll either be great or it wonā€™t. Itā€™ll either be the best experience ever or the worst experience ever. And either way, Iā€™ll figure it out. I adapt. Thatā€™s what I do now.

Emmie Sperandeo is a ranch hand and Western cinematographer. She lives in her horse trailer and goes coast to coast with her horses, dog, and currently a bison calf. She also travels internationally to explore agriculture around the world. You can find her on TikTok or on Instagram .Ģż

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