Content Warning: This story contains themes related to eating disorders and mental health that may be triggering or distressing to some readers.
It’s 4 am, and I shoot up abruptly, my head crashing into the roof of my Honda CRV. I’ve just spent the night car camping in preparation for my early morning hike in the Glacier Peak Wilderness of Washington State. After a night of restless sleep, I second-guess my day ahead. I’m exhausted. My stomach is growling. And now my head hurts. Why am I doing this?
I don’t give myself time to ruminate. I throw my hiking boots on, ensure that I have enough water for the day, and set off. I briefly note how light my pack is and feel a sense of pride. I don’t need food; I don’t need anything. I’m capable.
My naivety is fueled by an unwavering desire, a compulsion perhaps, to push myself to levels I never have before. Today’s hike is not about enjoyment; it’s a challenge.
I’ve started using long-distance hikes strictly for exercise, not pleasure. I use this method because I can’t choose to stop when I want. Once I’m out on the trail, there’s no turning back, and I use this to my advantage.
My mind wanders aimlessly as I scramble up switchbacks. I think about buttery stacks of pancakes, grilled cheese sandwiches, and last week’s untouched birthday cake…my mouth waters. This is helpful in the moment until I allow myself rationed sips of water, pretending that they are a strawberry milkshake.
Glacier Peak Wilderness on film. Photo by: Peyton Hamblin
A few hours pass along the North Fork Sauk Trail before I see the first Pacific Crest Trail marker. I can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion, my empty stomach, or the uncharacteristically hot Washington weather, but I feel delirious as I approach the PCT sign. Like many trail folks, I read Wild. I’ve known about the PCT, but this was my first time being on it. I touch the plaque, my hand shaking as I use my full strength to lift my own arm. I’m filled with joy, as though I’ve crossed into new, unfound territory. The feeling overwhelms me as I spin around, taking in the sprawling green landscape. It’s at this exact moment that I realize I’m not spinning, but the world around me is. Everything goes black.
I come to moments later, my cheeks covered in dirt and a slick layer of sweat under my clothes. There are two older men clad in Patagonia with large packs, supported by hiking poles, peering down at me in concern.
“Are you okay?”
“Who are you?”
“What happened?”
Embarrassed, I try to collect myself, appalled by my lack of strength. How could I let this happen? How could I be so irresponsible? My ears are ringing, and the men sound like they’re talking to me underwater. Eyes wide, I shoot up, not unlike this morning’s rude awakening.
“Woah there, you should sit down.”
“Do you need water?”
“Do you need food?”
Food. I needed food. I am reminded in that moment that it’s been exactly 6 days since I’ve last eaten. This was not an uncommon occurrence for me. I am suddenly very self-conscious about my body in front of these strangers, my hiking pants hanging loosely off my waist, my cropped t-shirt bringing attention to my ribcage. It’s apparent that I am unwell and unprepared to be on a hike of this length. My face, still pale from fainting, flushes from shame.
One hiker, Travis, offers me a granola bar. The other, Henry, offers water. I shake my head to both, pointing to my Camelbak half-filled with water. Even I am shocked by my own stubbornness. I look down at myself as I wipe the dirt off my body, the sunlight shining through the gap between my thin legs. I yank my pants up before taking another step forward, but I’m stopped by Travis.
“I really think that you should take a break. The summit up to Glacier Peak is intense; you might want to rest for a while.”
Our eyes meet for the first time, and I see genuine concern on his face. It’s honest. I wonder how a stranger could possibly care more about my wellbeing than I do and the feeling alone is enough to make me stop in my tracks.
“I know you’re probably determined to get up there, but it’s not worth it if you don’t feel well enough to enjoy it. It’s dangerous.”
I consider his words carefully, my head beginning to pound and the side effects of fainting setting in. What do I have to prove to anyone here? What am I trying to prove to myself? I get defensive.
“I told myself I was going to finish this hike today. And I plan to. I don’t care how long it takes me. I don’t care how I feel.”
The two men look at me curiously, then at each other. Henry laughs.
“Well, that’s…that’s different. Why are you even out here then?”
His question feels like an attack, and I immediately put up a shield. A beat passes. I lower the shield. I don’t have an answer to his question. Or, rather, I have an answer, but I’m too embarrassed to share it. My silence encourages him to continue.
“We’ve been on the PCT since Kennedy Meadows. It’s no joke; you need to be prepared out here. You get out of it what you put into it, but it’s been rewarding. We’ve seen some amazing things. At one point, we ran out of food, so we decided to stay in a trail town to re-up on our supplies and recover. You know…a lot of people do that. The trail isn’t fun when you’re not fueled.”
Fueled. My body isn’t a car. I roll my eyes at the idea. Maybe other people needed “fuel,” but I didn’t. I’ve learned how to operate on an empty tank. I stare blankly at them before they set off in the same direction as I planned on going, but I hang back, pondering over the interaction. “The trail isn’t fun when you’re not fueled,” echoes loudly in my head.
I turn back the way I came with the newfound knowledge that my first steps on the PCT would come at a later date. I wasn’t ready. I had healing I needed to do before then.
About one year later, I finally walked along Kennedy Ridge in the Glacier Peak Wilderness in my new hiking pants, two sizes bigger than before. I picked fresh huckleberries along the way, my smile growing bigger and tongue more purple with each passing mile. I stopped frequently, listening to my body’s call for rest, enjoying the earth around me. I ate snacks the entire time and discovered that my new favorite summit meal is a Snickers bar and Slim Jim, two things I hadn’t allowed myself to eat for years.
I passed meadows filled with wildflowers and pine trees covered in battle scars from enduring decades of storms. I noted how resilient they were, how they continued to stand tall after all this time and thought, “I’m like these trees. I’m strong too.”
When I finally reached the summit at Glacier Peak, I am flooded with memories of who I used to be. My previous self would’ve applauded my efforts, taken mental note of my distance and speed, and tracked burned calories. This version left her Apple Watch at home and opted in for a pair of binoculars instead. The only “challenge” I have for myself now is how many birds I can identify.
Photo of Glacier Peak Wilderness on film. Photo by: Peyton Hamblin
I’ve since then learned that the trail really isn’t as fun when you’re not fueled and, more importantly, that the earth will embrace you just as you are. I’ve found solace and empowerment in outdoor spaces. I’ve walked countless miles across rocky landscapes with trails that are so worn that the path ahead is almost unrecognizable. Somehow, I always find my way through, and I now understand that we have a lot more in common with nature than one might think.
We don’t look at old-growth forests and think, “Hmm…they’re getting a bit big. Maybe they could stand to lose a few trees.”
We don’t avoid trails with misshapen tread or expect their paths to be perfectly flat.
We don’t see wildflowers with missing petals and think of them as any less beautiful than the rest around them.
In nature, there is a beauty to be found everywhere. There is strength.