Participant-Centered Approach

I just finished helping organize aspects of the Appalachian Trail Biennial Conference in Cullowhee, N.C. It brought together more than 900 people to hike, learn, collaborate, maintain, and cultivate awareness for the Appalachian Trail. Among the activities of this event are guided hikes, more than 150 of them. Many of these hikes are lead by people who hike all the time; they are strong hikers who easily churn out a 3 mile-per-hour pace. However, not everyone who attends these events are capable of hiking quite that fast. This requires modification on the part of the hike leader to only hike as fast as the slowest hiker, a motto I learned well as a Girl Scout and practiced as a Girl Scout leader.

As a dance teacher of a modality known as The World GROOVEMovement, I was trained to facilitate dance. This means that rather than strictly governing “right” and “wrong” on the dance floor, I permit people to explore a simple move their way to get to the heart of their authenticity. This type of fitness class is counter to what most Americans are familiar with these days, with an expert instructor dancing at the front of the room, with everyone else striving to emulate her without success. The disconnect created in this situation with the leader as the center of focus means that it’s difficult for students to access what is actually happening to and inside of their bodies as they move. Instead of observing, they’re flailing and trying valiantly to keep up.

I see similarities with the traditional group exercise model and the model of hike leadership with a lot of groups who are taking people out to hike. Instead of aiming for success (after all, everyone can hike and enjoy it if it’s at a pace they can achieve and enjoy), we can often be led by our strengths – to charge ahead – instead of letting our newest participants set the pace, explore the territory, and guide their own experience.

As a model of leadership, how can I facilitate this kind of awareness in our volunteers? How can our clubs identify the interest and level of its members and cultivate their exploration and turn it into dedication (newbie to die-hard)? How can we change club culture from exclusive club to inclusive experience? 

It's about all of us. Each of us, individually and collectively - my other takeaway from the Biennial that I'll post separately. 

Weekend Getaway: Joyce Kilmer

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Last weekend a group of my friends and I set out to backpack a lollipop trail, one that leaves from the trailhead and soon splits to make a loop that returns to the access trail leading back to the cars. Maybe there’s another name for it: spoon or lasso? The trip through Joyce Kilmer and Citigo Wilderness areas was beautiful, challenging, and rewarding. The whole weekend seemed to be tinged with the magic of the old growth forests, or the serendipity of life on the trail itself, when everything just works out.

Despite our attempts to arrive at the trailhead at varied times, the three groups of folks coming from different locations arrived within minutes of each other at about 8:45 p.m. We finalized gear to include in packs, laced up boots, and as is commonly the case when backpacking with my aptly named friend Last Minute, we set off onto the trail just after nightfall. We slipped onto the trail just over a guard rail, then turned sharply right to walk parallel to a landslide before crossing a bridge at a 45-degree angle that slid from it’s higher purchase on the mountain, to settle firmly enough in its current location. The trail connected with a wide road bed that we followed, walking in clustered sets of two or three, headlamps and conversations breaking through the dark forest as we slowly and steady ascended Bob Stratton Bald. 

We awoke in our little thicket of trees on the bald, packed up, and set out for the trail that would take us to Hangover Rock, along the spine of the ridge. We initially missed the turn for Hangover Rock but quickly recovered from the mistake, turning back after one descending switchback, to take the high point. The slight delay allowed us to perfectly time our arrival on the scenic overlook with the sun’s first appearance of the day, revealing the Great Smoky Mountains, Fontana Lake, and the forests and ridges we would cover in the next days. We snacked, snapped pictures, and rested before descending steeply to Big Fat Gap. 

Around mile 5 or 6 of our 9-mile hike, I noticed our dog Annie’s fatigue. Compelled to lead or unite the group at all times, her enthusiasm for her role overshadowed her fatigue for most of the day. I instated longer rest breaks for us in looking out for her best interest. 

We navigated trail intersections, crossed Slickrock Creek, scampered down to swim in Wildcat Falls, and then climbed steadily to our ridge top camp. During one break during the climb Annie laid down in a mud hole and slept with her head still high. Poor dear. Hot and tired, she’d taken to cooling herself like swine.

At camp, Annie ate immediately and slept. We pitched our tent, ate dinner, and gathered round the campfire to celebrate Last Minute’s birthday with s’mores and moonshine. The sudden pelting rain around 9 sent us scattering to our tents. Thunder and lightening prevailed until around midnight, and the rain stayed on until morning. I awoke at 6 from more thunder, lightening, and what I could make out as the break of dawn with the dense cloud cover. Talking commenced between the nylon walls of tents. We ate our breakfasts staying as sheltered as possible between the intermittent rains and the wind that blew more off the leaves above. When we’d performed every last possible morning ritual to delay packing and walking in the rain, there was a break in it. It lasted just long enough to deconstruct our tents and organize the essentials back into backpacks. Just as well-timed as the break in the rain was the sudden, pelting onslaught that followed, so we slung on our packs, cinched them tight to our rain jackets and hit the trail. 

The rain persisted all day, from the time we got on the trail at 8:30 until we got off the trail at 2:30. I regulated my temperature with adjustments to my clothing. Rain jacket off for the big climbs, with my body pumping out enough energy to keep me warm. Rain jacket on for descents when the wind pierced through every bit of my wet clothes to prick my skin into goose bumps. The lightening would shatter the darkness of the forest (the darkness of forest in the daytime entertains me because it’s so novel) then I would count the seconds to know the distance of the storm. This happened again and again throughout the day, as if the storm gods were lining up to take their chance at seeing how wet we could become with each downpour. So much so, that I would find myself noticing in my soaking wet state that, indeed, “I think I just felt water travel a new route down my backside. Had it been there before?” Of course it had, but the rivulet that streamed down my body on this downpour was greater than before, it seemed.

As I walked through sheets of torrential rain, in one moment I felt my sheer insignificance in the world. Encased by the magnificence of the thunder, the bright illumination of lightening, and the world in all its complexities of nature, I realized that I am nothing but just that: a flash of light, passing energy. Here. Then gone. This precious life. So fleeting. My part here so small. 

Marcus, Annie and I were apart from the group, hiking steady through the fog and rain until we reached a junction where we waited. It seemed longer than the ten or fifteen minutes we stood there. There wasn’t a place to be out of the wetness or the cold. We drank hot tea I still had in my thermos I had prepared that morning. It helped. When we forgot, briefly, that we were waiting, they appeared. We walked out the last mile on that wide trail of a forest road through deep puddles, talking about food, but no one mentioned our next adventure. 

Struck Mute by Fear

Bill says he knows I was scared because I was so quiet. 

As an extreme extrovert, I hardly ever am noticed for my quiet demeanor. When he pointed this out, I knew it was true.

My otherwise bubbly, verbal chatter languished while an internal dialogue of fear raced inside my head, from the "what ifs" and "is this really designed properly?" to the self-soothing words to squelch the distress.

I've been zip lining twice and each time it takes more zips than not to overcome my fear. I stand on the platform, knees literally knocking (on this last trip, I suspect it was the persistent cool wind that fueled it most), before jumping off into the air, trusting the harness, my guides, and my own skill to remember to stop using my right, leather-clad palm behind me on the wire.

My friend Desiree posted on her Facebook page this morning, "Everyone's scared.
Few carry on. Keep calm, The Universe." She also posted this: "Your fears won't keep you safe. They will keep you small." 

She's a wise friend, and while I suspect she'd talk slightly differently about the fear that eclipses a soul on a treetop platform of a zipline course, I will still apply them here. They're relevant metaphors for this life experience. Zip lining, like hang gliding, like backpacking, life, or running one's own business has inherent things we perceive as dangers, places to slip, and points for failure.  But, if we never step off the platform we won't know what we can accomplish. And, once we're off, the rewards, the adrenaline, the celebration when we succeed what we set out to do absolutely rock!

Bill has lost more than 160 lbs. He knows. Hard work. Trust. Attitude. These things matter for any obstacle. Daily, he's forging new territory: zip lining, dance classes, dating, seeking out challenging and new life experiences.

Scott, me, Laura, Bill

Right now I'm facing fear of the unknown. I'm standing between the ever present challenges of self-employment and the equally challenging commitment to full-time work with an organization that is as close to my own heart as the blood in my veins. While the path ahead of me isn't quite clear, I know that I must trust and step boldly off the platform, so that I can land somewhere new. It's growth. It's evolution. It's life.

One Week, Two Restaurants

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In January I moved in with Marcus. The final and most “official” piece of my move-in wasn’t the bed, it was my coffee mug. Since our cohabitation began we’ve been sinking deeper into domesticity. We brought Annie The Dog home from our early-February travels. We’ve planted flowers, shrubs, and trees, built raised beds, and established, at least in theory, a household cleaning schedule. We’ve gotten the “family plan” for our cell phones, which feels to me like a really big deal because our data and payments are now hitched; this just feels like commitment (even more than moving in together).

With all we’ve done to mesh ourselves and our stuff in the 340 sq. ft. of this house, I think the thing I enjoy most is cooking together because making meals, nourishing our bodies, and collaborating over kale is frugal, healthy and fun.  Needless to say, between my explorations of the finer points of rehydrating and cooking dried beans (I still haven’t gotten it down pat) we haven’t eaten out too much. So, it’s with delight that we explored not one, but two, new restaurants in Asheville in the past week.

Because we so often return to places we know and love, it’s a perk that both restaurants at which we ate were new to us as well as being new to the Asheville community.

Last Sunday, ravenous from thoroughly cleaning our tiny abode then visiting friends in their new home, Marcus and I popped over to ZIA Taquaria. I ordered two tacos, a shrimp and a carnitas. Marcus ate a barbacoa plate. We ordered at the counter and found a table on the patio (farthest from where someone was smoking). The chips and salsa hit the spot for knocking off my immediate hunger, and I really liked the flavor of the salsa. 

In short order our meals arrived. I ate my shrimp taco first, and it was pretty good. It didn’t knock my socks off, but it had a pretty good flavor. The carnitas, on the other hand, was pretty gross. I ate a few bites of the greasy taco before I realized I could actually pour out all the oil that had settled into the bottom of my flour taco. When I talked to the waiter, who I believe may be a co-owner, about the grease in my carnitas he exclaimed that it’s meant to be that way. In my experience it’s not, especially because the fat didn’t seem like animal fat, it seemed like vegetable oil. It was odd and not particularly tasty. 

I thought Marcus’s barbacoa was pretty good, mind you, I’ve never eaten barbacoa in my life. I rated his meat as a B. He graded it at a C based on his experience growing up in Texas and traveling to Mexico a lot. His accompanying beans and rice were off somehow, though neither of us could tell how. It tasted like the cook got his hands on some Goya Adobo seasoning and used that exclusively for the beans. I’m glad we went to see what all the hype was about. I may get back that way for a margarita, chips and salsa at a future date, but I’ll refrain from ordering anything more substantial.

While our meal at ZIA was disappointing, we had lots to celebrate after our meal at Magnolia Ray in Woodfin last night. We went to dine out for the Y yesterday since 10% of certain restaurants’ profits were being donated to the YMCA Healthier Communities Campaigns. The ambiance, attentive staff, and the food were all top notch. Marcus ordered a Magnolia Ray Burger that came with caramelized onion and bacon. The burger and bun were melt-in-your-mouth delicious, topped with spinach, goat cheese, and properly caramelized onion. Most importantly, it was cooked to order, served medium, just as he asked. I ate Zucchini “un-tagliatelle” with chicken. The generous portion was well-seasoned, fresh, and hearty pasta-alternative meal. I had intended to hold back from eating it all in one sitting, but I just couldn’t stop myself from enjoying it all hot from the kitchen. Several friends I saw there that evening had shrimp and grits and reported satisfaction with the deliciousness of their orders (maybe I'll get that next time).

So, I’m back to bit of blogging, restaurant-dining and home-making. I hope you’ve been well.

Settling Into a Pace

I went for a run today, my first solo run in a very long time. Honestly, I was a bit apprehensive about it before I started. My hesitance came from not running frequently and the inclination I have to compare where I am now with where I was last year in regards to my fitness.


In any event, I was going. Marcus and I agreed that he would drop me off at the Orange Peel after we ran a morning errand so I could run the 3 or so miles distance back home. I unzipped my white fleece vest and left it in the passenger seat; I wouldn’t need it since the temperatures were already approaching 60 at 10:30 a.m.


I started to run, and I felt a tinge of ache in my right knee. This is something I’ve observed more regularly at the outset of my dance workouts. I worried for a split second about it, then noticed the employee of the new brewery Wicked Weed sweeping up cigarette butts off the sidewalk. And, as it happens, I slipped into a comfortable pace, churning up the slight hill of Biltmore toward Pack Square, past cute dogs on leashes, over top of the textured concrete of the new ALoft Hotel, and the bustling Bomba on the corner of Patton.


I zipped west on Patton Avenue, remembering as much as possible to soak in the perspective of the mountains that nestle this city and her residents close, providing nurturing, comfort, sustenance – like a good, round mother.


I cut through the used car lot and onto Clingman where gravity added ease to an already light run. I hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Over the French Broad on the Riverlink Bridge, I started the ascent of Haywood. As easily as I’d come down to the river, I was met with the challenge of climbing away from it. The gradual hill felt manageable at first, but as it extended beyond my sight, turning in a bend in the road, my mind said stop. And, in response, another strain said “it’s not how fast you get there, it’s that you get there.” Automatically my stride shortened. I took on a measured pace to more strategically tackle the long obstacle of my course.

“It’s not how fast you get there, it’s that you get there.”

I was talking to a woman at the Y the other day about hiking. She said she’s all for big vistas with sweeping views. If a hike doesn’t have that, she wants no part of it. Now I’ve always liked hiking in the forest, feeling safe and sheltered there. Despite the fact that I am just as happy without a view or a waterfall as with one, I shared with her a nugget of wisdom from my Appalachian Trail thru-hike that relates to my own revelation today, “it’s the journey not the destination.”


You can start the Appalachian Trail, but never finish it (or not finish it in the timeframe you intend). You may run a race but not finish it at the goal time you set. You may commit yourself to exercise but not see results as rapidly as you’d like.


It’s not how we do any of these things, but that we do them in the first place. That we try is they key, and that, in trying, we focus on where we are at, by noticing our surroundings, greeting people along the way, remembering to make it feel good will get us farther (and ultimately faster) than if we have to stop.


Often the lessons I gain on a run or on trail are messages intended for the rest of my life. I’ve been facing challenges lately that seem like long, winding uphills, where I just can’t see the end of where this path will take me. So I’ll figuratively shorten my stride and settle in to tackle it just as it appears.

15 Minutes A Day

I set out to write a blog post a day in 2012. It’s December 12 and I’ve reached the grand total of 44 posts. That’s an average of 3.6 per month. If I could look back on the me that started the challenge in January, I would probably feel disappointed that I didn’t make my goal. But the me that’s sitting in the now of falling short of my intention feels totally fine with my shortcomings – if I should even consider them such.

I realize that it was important to have the goal to strive toward. I did do more writing in the early part of the year, before I started dating Marcus, before I started writing even more for hire, and before I undertook more consulting projects.

I know that writing is an important exercise. Especially writing for myself. Writing my stories. Writing my experiences. Writing my truth. That’s something that writing for hire can’t do. When I work for someone else, it’s in my words, my style, my ideas on structure and organization, but it’s not the same as deciding this is 100% the most important thing to share with the world. It’s not necessarily my optimism, my joy, and my hope (though I do strive to find work projects that allow the good to shine through, because we have far, far too much bad news in this world).

This morning I was at the gym reading a magazine, and I read something about a woman who wrote ten books while working a full-time job. Ten. She wrote these ten books by writing for just15 minutes each day. 15 minutes. Every day. Her work. Her projects. Her books. She didn’t spend the whole day on it. She didn’t have time. She spent what she could eek out. Perhaps it was the first 15 minutes upon waking, or 15 minutes after a morning run, or 15 minutes after dinner. But the accumulation of 15 minutes, daily is 91 hours and 25 minutes in a year.

Really her challenge was not much different than the one I set out to tackle at the start of this year. A book, like a blog, is an accumulation of words, thoughts, and ideas. A book is a bit more refined because it’s organized in a cohesive manner, but a book and a blog are the same beast. They’ve got the same bones.

I return, again, to my 15 minutes.

The Courage of Discourse

I got a handwritten letter today. The letter came from someone I’ve never met. Carol lives in the nearby town of Marshall.  While I’m not sure how she got my address, I’m glad she wrote.

She wrote me this letter, explaining some of her decisions to vote democratic and for Obama in the upcoming election.

A letter from Carol Dixon

Before I opened the letter I considered it. I wondered if this hand written envelope enclosed a letter from someone espousing political views. Before I even opened the letter I thought about the fact that we do need to be using our voices, our pens, and the tools of communication to share our opinions with our neighbors.  We don’t have to agree, but we should feel empowered to discuss our ideas, even if those ideas are different from those of “our” established political party lines. This is the power of democracy that I feel is commonly overshadowed by media pundits, the commentary of editorial talk-show hosts, and the pervasive and simplistic arguments of “We’re right. They’re wrong.”

Not knowing what the letter would be before I opened it I decided that no matter the position presented, I would reply with a letter that acknowledges her feelings and opinions, and thanking her for writing to start the dialogue.

Thankfully, I opened the letter to find it expressed her personal opinions. Based on her life and family experience she intends to vote a straight democratic ticket.

What I didn’t find was a finger pointing at me with “you should” or “what you don’t know…” that I feel has slid into political discourse. That kind of dialogue devalues the listener. It supposes you are incapable of a decision. It supposes that you’ve given no thought or consideration to your experience and what you witness in your life. We all have opinions, experiences, and feelings. If we tune in to what’s inside us instead of repeating arguments or ideologies conveyed by the media, we’d be much closer to the democracy we claim to be part of as Americans.

I love that she wrote to start a conversation among her neighbors. I love that she wrote for what she believes in, based on her experience, to members of this county that are largely republican, and I love that she spent her hard earned money on the paper, envelopes, and stamps to send this mail to people.

I deeply respect that she has opened herself up to the dialogue with her neighbors, those who agree, and those who disagree. It may produce mail that is filled with vile and bitter tones, rather than a calm response of personal opinion in opposition that makes up a true discussion. Regardless, she has knowingly opened the door to this discourse, and I admire her courage.

I talk politics sometimes, but I generally do it in the company of close friends or relatives. I don’t generally use Facebook or Twitter for sharing my political opinions because I believe its purpose is to connect people, not divide them (and our current political structure is very divisive). But Carol’s letter reminds me that as long as what I present is my opinion, my feelings, based on my experiences, it’s a fine idea to talk politics, because this type of discourse is the cornerstone of our nation.

Perhaps, I’ve taken to heart the expression to not talk about religion, politics and money (or is it sex) in mixed company, to garner a more peaceable existence. Then again, if I do that am I short-changing what it means to live in a democratic society?

What do you think? Do you talk politics with your neighbors? Why? Why not? 

(I seek a civilized conversation. All comments are welcome as long as they are thoughtful arguments rather than combative assaults on a difference of opinion.)

Interview with PCT Thru-Hiker Anne Tully

Anne is a 2008 Appalachian Trail thru-hiker who said she’d never hike another long trail after completing the A.T. Two weeks later, she thought she might want to hike the A.T. again, but then didn’t give it much more thought. 

Four years later the urge to hike another long trail hit her hard. She started planning for the PCT at the end of 2011, and she and I met in March 2012 to talk about the similarities and differences of her experience on the A.T. and what she could expect on the PCT.

We talked again last Saturday, and I asked her about her experiences on the PCT and insights she gained on her 2012 PCT thru-hike.

When did you start at the Mexican border and when did you get to the end in Canada?

I started on April 20 and on September 4 I had made it to the border. I left through Manning Park on September 5.

Anne's trail name is Stride.

 I was talking to my aunt the other day, and realized, all of that is 2,700 miles.

What are your overall impressions of the PCT?

It’s interesting for me because I hiked a lot of it as a solo hiker. That’s a totally different experience than my A.T. hike where I had people with me. I walked at least 1/3 of the PCT alone and spent nights by myself. Northern California was the longest stretch where I was by myself.

When I look back at pictures I am taken back by how absolutely beautiful it was on the PCT. Moments I stopped in my tracks and was just literally in awe, but it didn’t make up for the fact that the trail was hard. When I talked to people before my hike, people told me I wouldn’t experience the physical pain of the trail because of the beauty. People romanticize the trail, in particular, the high Sierras. In fact, I think the Sierras were more difficult for me mentally; I became resentful because it was beautiful but it wasn’t enough to take the pain away.

At one point I was talking to [trail legend] Billy Goat, and he gave me the lesson I took away, to “take the trail for yourself.” Don’t allow other people to formulate your experience based on their experience.

There is stunning scenery, but you have to go in with the blank slate, without expectation, because it will likely be more difficult. If you go in with a romanticized vision you could be disappointed.

What was the best part of the hike?

Goat Rocks wilderness in Washington State is for sure a section that has stuck with me. When we went through the weather was perfect, the wildflowers, the lupine, were in full bloom. One fella I met had lived in the area for 57 years said he’d never seen the lupine in full bloom like that, ever. We had beauty of wild flowers everywhere and jagged rocks. You could see Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Adams you just finished walking around. Then, BAM!, Mt. Rainier. It was spectacular. There was lots of ridge walking there, and I liked that. 

In Oregon I liked the Three Sisters and Mt. Jefferson, and in California, Muir Pass was my favorite. I was blown away. It was one of the first times I felt truly stunned with what I was able to experience and live in.

What was the hardest part of the hike?

After I left Ashland Oregon alone, I was by myself for next three and a half days. Physically I was so tired. I had been doing 30-mile days in northern California. There were hikers ahead of me and hikers behind me. I couldn’t go any faster than the 30, 32, and 35-mile days I was doing in Oregon. I couldn’t slow down for people behind me to catch up because I was on a deadline to finish so I could return to work on time. I was by myself, feeling mental weariness. I was just struggling to stay in the game. I was hard on myself too. I just wanted to quit.

When I got to Crater Lake I really wanted to stop, and ask some tourist to take me away.

It was a time of growth, because I realized that I didn’t have a guarantee to finish the trail. It doesn’t matter how tough you think you are.

What kept you motivated to continue?

When I got to Crater Lake, I got food, and picked up my mail, but my maps weren’t there. That was almost the straw that broke camel’s back.

At the same time, I got mail from friend of mine that had letters of encouragement from other people. I sat outside and read all the letters. I was truly humbled that people would write me letters, and words of encouragement. There were letters from people I didn’t know. Those letters were awesome.

After that I had to go to the hiker box at the store. While I was there I talked to this girl, Jenna, and told her I was having a hard time. She and I talked for 5 or 10 minutes while I finished packing my food. She came back 20 minutes later with words of encouragement, energy bars, and invited me to her campsite for dinner. I ended up spending the night at her campsite.

It’s those kinds of interpersonal relationships with people, either in letters, or dinner with Jenna that kept me going. It was a rich experience to share life with people I wouldn’t have otherwise met. It was a beautiful experience that just connected for me, and gave me a morale boost.

What advice would you offer someone planning or starting a PCT thru-hike?

Try to touch base with as many people as you can who have hiked the trail to learn about their experience, but recognize that the weather is so variable. I talked to you, and you had a lot of snow. I didn’t have much snow but I had a ton of wind. A ton of wind. It was scary.

Be flexible in your mind. Maintain inquisitiveness the whole way. Ask people you meet along the way questions. I learned that people on the trail are very creative with their gear.

Lastly, be aware that there’s an obsession with ultra light hiking gear on the PCT. I probably, realistically, had forty people say, “wow, your pack looks heavy.” Even into Washington where I had walked 2,400 miles, they were still amazed. Ultra light isn’t for everybody.

I had a man challenge me about my tent, then lecture me about the number of ounces over 3 pounds. Ounces aren’t going to make or break my hike for me. That’s not important to me, but it was really important to him.

I encourage people to research it, learn from people, keep some perspective, and be confident in what you decide works for you. Be ready to pop off sassy comments; because people don’t get off the ultra light soapbox, I had to have my own.

The Northern California blues actually happened. It took me three months and week to walk California, two weeks for Oregon, and three weeks for Washington.

What did you do to prepare for the trail?

I felt really overwhelmed. I had a back injury the year I decided to do this. I had a strong conviction about hiking, so I took a slow, patient approach to physical activity until my back healed up. I did some running, and I did three day-hikes up to Wesser and back with food in my pack. I didn’t do much training.

From my Appalachian Trail experience I knew that if you are slow from the beginning, the trail will kick your tail into gear as it needs to be. Nothing prepares you for the trail except the trail. If I took it slow and mindful in the beginning my body would acclimate.

It takes realizing that the first couple of weeks does feel like work and is hard.

I had to be sensitive to the transition from normal life to trail life by understanding that I may feel overwhelmed at moments, because of the east coast to west coast culture change, by going alone, walking through the desert, and the elevation of the Sierras.

I had to start by learning about the first part of the trail, and then take the rest of it as it comes after that.

It’s cool when it moves from a feeling of working, to a feeling of a lifestyle. Eventually at some point you wake up robotically, pack up and start moving. You embrace it and enjoy it.

The same thing happened on the Appalachian Trail, where I felt like I can do this forever.

Name change

I just changed the name of the blog from "Shadow of the Moon" to Leanna Joyner.

May's Super Moon viewed from the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Shadow of the Moon referenced my trail name "Moonshadow" that has been my alter-identity on long-distance trails, the Appalachian Trail and Pacific Crest Trail, and in trail circles for nearly ten years.

Maybe one day I'll write about how I got my trail name, how it stuck, and my general thoughts on trail names as part of the hiking subculture, but for now, suffice to say that this blog is an outward expression of myself in this world, as so it will be named.

There's another reason, too. When I started this blog I wasn't sure what my presence would be online. I was wary of identity theft, unsure of my posting frequency, or if anyone but friends and family would read it. I'm moving beyond the anonymity I one sought here to claim the voice and opinions that I share.

Thanks for sticking with me along this journey. I'm having a lot of fun with it so far and hope to bring you much, much more.

Be, Don't Do

Sometimes the things I need most seem counter-intuitive to what I think I need to do.

See, pressure around here has been mounting. I've been adding more projects to my plate, and they're all things I really enjoy doing. I've been giving presentations, writing for various publications, attending trainings, and organizing Joyus Groove classes. I've been settling in to a relationship with Marcus that's feeling good and solid and true; albeit, just like any relationship, it requires time, attention, and nurturing.

Meanwhile, he's been finishing his patio and putting finishing touches on his tiny house. For a while we were really stressed, spiraling in a place of new busy-ness as we simultaneously juggled our own worries and responsibilities.

It's in those times, with activities seemingly closing in around me like a tight corset, making it hard to breath, when it's hardest to find the latch and step outside. 

The singular salve that makes everything better, hiking. It's just there...outside the door, with a map, a bottle of water, an apple, a jacket, my headlamp (in case it turns dark), and my boots.

Marcus and I finally did just that on Sunday, barely speaking to one another for listening to the wisdom of the experience, Mother Nature, and our quieting minds.

When I get filled up with what I think I need to do, hiking helps me remember how to be who I am, and that, for me, is its greatest lesson.  

We drove to Camp Creek Bald and hiked to Firescald Knob along the Appalachian Trail. I think we'll return again this Saturday to hike a loop from the river up to the ridge, exploring more of Shelton Laurel, an area I've talked a lot about in my presentations lately.

Take a Tiny House Tour

I'd write something about this, but I've spent too many hours learning everything I needed to know to edit the audio and make a video. I hope you enjoy it. I find this to be a super fascinating project. We talk about Marcus' inspiration, original design, construction process, and costs.




If you can't view the embedded video, you'll find it here on YouTube. 

SmallerHouseLargerLife.com is under construction. If you'd like to contact Marcus Barksdale, reach him at smallerhouselargerlife@gmail.com.

This is my first audio and video editing project, ever. Please excuse all its imperfections. I blog about this and other things that interest me right here and as often as possible.

I've Got a Book!

I've been kind of low key (okay, almost silent) about the fact that I researched and wrote a book with the working title Hiking Through History for the Appalachian Trail Conservancy. It's time I open up.

The fact is, I was waiting for the big "reveal." I was waiting for the book to materialize from its long metamorphosis from digital manuscript to bound form to validate me, as a historian, writer, author. I was waiting to ask for your support once it came out, to invite me to speak, purchase my book, and spread the word.

But I'm really excited for it, and I want to make it a reality, soon (as in edits finalized, layout complete, printed, and in your hands).  

I just made my third presentation on the book. I've presented at UNCA-Asheville, the Madison County Geneological Society, and, tonight, the Franklin Library. I'm honing my presentation, and I'm owning the fact that I've written a book. I'm amped! I got home two hours ago, and I'm still running off the excitement of sharing the the Appalachian Trail and the history I discovered. 

So, let's do this, shall we?

If you are interested or may ever be interested in my book, sign up with your interest here so I can demonstrate interest and support. Together: you, me, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, we'll make this a reality.

Thanks,
Leanna

Resupply: The Appalachian Trail v. The Pacific Crest Trail

The Appalachian Trail Versus the Pacific Crest Trail: How to Pick Your Pleasure, Part Four

They weren’t designated the first National Scenic Trails for nothing. These two premier hiking trails are designed specifically to impart the beauty of their landscapes (seriously, trail builders think of these things).

Both are excellent choices, so whether you’ve finished hiking one of them and are ready to take on the next, or are simply deciding which one to hike for your first-ever thru-hike, here are some discernable differences that make each unique.

Town Stops & Resupply: While this won’t make or break a decision to hike one of these trails over the other, resupply is an important component of a long-distance hike, and these two trails are really different when it comes to resupply.  

A hitch in Maine

The A.T. has resupply points in high frequency, and they are generally only a short distance from the trail, which means hikers can carry less food and stop more regularly to resupply. Communities near the A.T. often have a pretty good awareness of hikers, and they’re fairly willing to pick up hitchhikers coming in to town, or returning to trail. Trail towns do a pretty good job of stocking what hikers need, and there are hostels and hotels that cater to hikers, offering discount rates for overnight stays.

The long wait. The hitch into Mojave finally ended with a ride in the police car. Thankfully the patrolman looks out for hikers in need of a ride so they don't become casualties of the intense roadside heat.

The PCT doesn’t have quite the same level of awareness among drivers, and the towns are further from the Trail, which means longer waits while hitchhiking and longer rides once someone picks you up. The bigger resupply stops do carry standard fare for hikers’ diets, but there are a lot of smaller stops where you may still need to rely on a mail drop.

I got a hitch with these nice fellas near Wrightwood, CA.

Even if hiking solo, hitchhiking to towns in pairs is the safest approach. I take this precaution seriously as a female hiker. While it’s not always possible to hitchhike with others, the fact that more people hike the A.T. means that there are generally other hikers around when you get ready to hitch to town, or back to the trail. In all cases, use your gut. If someone seems odd, by all means, find a reason to get out of taking them up on their offer for a ride ("Oh, I just remembered that I think I left my camera back at my last stop on the Trail...Gotta get it. Thanks anyway!")

Trail Guides: When planning and hiking, here are my recommendations on the best resources for each of these trails. I would use them in these combinations.

Pacific Crest Trail 

Yogi’s PCT (planning and) trail town guide

Half-mile’s maps

PCTA databook

Water report (I'm not sure about the future of this site as the person who compiled the information passed away in August. Hopefully another PCT enthusiast will undertake the effort in his absence.)

Appalachian Trail

Appalachian Trail Conservancy maps

AWOL’s A.T. Guide

This is the final installment of a four part series on the differences between these 2 trails:
Part One: People
Part Two: Elements
Part Three: Trail terrain, views, snow
Part Four: Resupply

Do you have experience with both of these trails? What do you think are the biggest differences? 

True or False: the A.T. is hard; the PCT is easy

The Appalachian Trail v. the Pacific Crest Trail: How to Pick Your Pleasure, part three

They weren’t designated the first National Scenic Trails for nothing. These two premier hiking trails are designed specifically to impart the beauty of their landscapes (seriously, trail builders think of these things).

Both are excellent choices, so whether you’ve finished hiking one of them and are ready to take on the next, or are simply deciding which one to hike for your first-ever thru-hike, here is one of several discernible differences that make each unique.

The Trail: I’m talking treadway or footpath here. Every A.T. hiker hears that PCT is so much easier to hike. Every PCT hiker hears that the A.T. is like walking through a green tunnel. So, let’s get all this out in the open.

Gradually graded Pacific Crest Trail in Southern California

The A.T. is hard. The PCT is easy. These generalizations, like most, don’t tell the whole story. The Pacific Crest Trail is primarily more gently graded than the A.T., and this difference is most starkly apparent at the outset of a northbound thru-hike, whether you start at Campo, California, or Spring Mountain, Georgia. While most hikers intend to train for their hike (and some do) most set out on a trail having scrambled to organize the rest of their lives so they can leave to fulfill their dream, often starting out with good intentions but not a lot of strength in their “hiking legs.” Plus, it’s my opinion that there’s no better training for a thru-hike than a thru-hike, but that’s another post entirely.

The difference at these trails’ southern terminuses means you may be able to easily hike 15 to 20 miles on day one in California, where you may only be able to hike 6 or 8 in Georgia. The difference is elevation change and the grade of the trail, but to generalize and say all of the PCT is easier would be going too far and excludes other factors of a PCT hike.

The fact is the PCT through the Sierras is difficult, given the altitude, terrain, river crossings, and snow; it’s not always a cakewalk. In the same token, the A.T. isn’t always a steep ascent and steep descent; there are rolling meadows, riverside ambles, and ridgeline walks. They both have their unique challenges, so let’s not get crazy with generalizations.

Sure, you can hike longer mile days on the PCT with a bit less fatigue, but you also need to cover 400 more miles on that trail in a slightly shorter window of time than on the A.T. (2,180 on the A.T. vs. 2,600 on the PCT).

Green Tunnel v. Views for Miles: I like to think of the Appalachian Trail as an experience in minutia, all the small wonders that make up this grand spectacle of nature; this includes walking through fog-shrouded tunnels of rhododendron grown so tightly together that I feel like I’m walking through a fairy tale. There are amazing views to be had along the A.T. from rock outcroppings and mountain summits, but they are the special features of the Trail, not necessarily a daily requirement. If they were on the food pyramid, amazing views would be the decadent dessert that you get in moderation, while walking in the rest of the experience provides well-balanced nourishment.

See the whit blaze on the rock in the center? Yes, this is the
Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania. (I love to dispel the
generalization that ALL of Penn. is like this though.)

The PCT offers views for miles around. In fact from where you walk, you can often see the trail ahead snaking off into the distance. This has the potential to inspire as well as discourage you, especially if you are tired and know your destination is far beyond sight. From every place you stand, you can take ten amazing photographs, easily. The key in such an environment is to find awe in the landscape that is perpetually on display.

Because you can become desensitized to either the vast beauty laid out before you on the PCT, or the forest’s secret wonders and “special features” on the A.T., it’s best to steer clear of comparing the apples and oranges in this regard, and just accept them as designed.

Snow: As a Southerner the snow took me by surprise on the A.T. and the PCT, at different times and in different ways. Here’s how:

On the Appalachian Trail, assuming a start date before April, you will likely get snow. While other areas of the Southeast may see not one white flake, A.T. hikers will get a dusting, if not a dump, because of the elevation and the likelihood for the mountain tops to “catch” and stall the weather system. Hikers starting in February or March often get snow in Georgia, North Carolina, and Tennessee, most notably in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. These spring snows are wet and heavy, and can come unexpectedly (like following several days of spring sunshine). Like any other time on the A.T. it’s important for hikers be aware of their condition and follow tips for preventing hypothermia.

I awoke to this snowfall the morning I walked into North Carolina.

On the PCT, you will encounter snow. It’s a matter of when and where. The thing I was least prepared for and learned the most about was snow and snow traversing, because I was traveling across som near vertical snowfields. The terrain that offers views for miles is the same terrain that means there are no big trees to cling to should you slide down an icy slope . A slip without knowledge of self-arrest techniques could have been deadly. As it was, I was uneasy and less than surefooted on that terrain. While snow conditions differ from year to year, when I hiked there was a lot; I must have walked three miles through snow to reach Muir Hut and another five or six in snow after the summit celebration.

On the PCT

If I had to do it all over again I would have taken some mountaineering courses on snow and snow travel before my hike (and when I do it all over again, I will).

My trepidation for traveling in snow without my ice axe (I needed it much sooner than I thought and had sent it much farther ahead), led me to make a penny wise, pound foolish mistake. My friend Morph and I skipped around snowy San Jacinto and Fuller Ridge to a section farther north because I didn't have an ice axe. I should have bought one at the outfitter and kept hiking. As it was we spent excessive time and money hiking a more northern section, then returned later to re-capture this missing section of the Trail.


This is part three of a four part series on the differences between these 2 trails:
Part One: People
Part Two: Elements
Part Three: Trail terrain, views, snow
Part Four: Resupply 

The Elements: Appalachian Trail v. Pacific Crest Trail, a Guide to Picking Your Pleasure, part two

They weren’t designated the first National Scenic Trails for nothing. These two premier hiking trails are designed specifically to impart the beauty of their landscapes (seriously, trail builders think of these things).

Both are excellent choices, so whether you’ve finished hiking one of them and are ready to take on the next, or are simply deciding which one to hike for your first-ever thru-hike, the elements comprise one of several discernible differences that make each trail unique.

The Elements: The Appalachians and the Pacific Crest are different mountain ranges with distinct landscapes and climates that influence these elements: earth, wind, fire, and water.

Earth: On the A.T. the world beneath your feet is red clay, rocks, and roots (from Georgia up to the mid-Atlantic), or boggy and bedrock (in the northeast). As a 480 million year old mountain range, it's stable ground.

Bedrock of the White Mountains of New Hampshire

The PCT is sandy and shifts beneath your feet. Yes, sandy sidehill slips out from under you along canyons; additionally, the ground may literally sway beneath you as you drift to sleep. If you aren’t accustomed to quakes before your PCT hike, you will develop a sense for them. I felt three earthquakes in two-months.

Wind: The A.T. doesn’t have anything on the PCT when it comes to wind. This PCT element is a force to be reckoned with. I read recommendations for wind shirts or jackets in Yogi's PCT planning guide, but I should have taken the advice more seriously, very seriously.

It's no wonder you hike in sight of windmills on the PCT.

Fire: Gathering around a fire with friends is a primal and communal activity. It’s nostalgic, but it’s generally not practical on a thru-hike. After all, who wants to hike all day, and then collect firewood? But I’m writing more than just about campfires when I talk about fire. It relates to camp stoves, too.

If you like a hot meal, if you like gathering around a campfire, and if you like hot coffee on trail, the A.T. has a lot more to offer. Why? Because, as my friend Morph has said, the PCT is a tinderbox.

Burned forest. It's a frequent occurrence on the PCT.

In 2012, there were 11 fires that effected or closed sections of the PCT. Given that conditions are drier in the west, coupled with the aforementioned wind, it can be dangerous and unwise to build campfires, and sometimes even cook a hot meal on what would otherwise be a safe camp stove. It’s your judgment call once you’re out on the trail, but I signed and took seriously a permit to hike on the PCT that said I would be responsible to pay for containment and clean-up of any fire I caused. Sometimes this meant giving up the option to warm my instant mashed potatoes.

Water: Call me a water angel because it seems that in the years I chose to thru-hike, water was abundant. I hiked the A.T. in the rainiest year on record, and the PCT in 2010 was experiencing a very wet spring. That being said, water resources are always more abundant on the A.T. than the PCT. There are long stretches of the PCT through the desert where natural sources can’t be relied upon; this generally requires hikers to carry more water for longer distances.

(More about my initial impressions on PCT elements are found on my Trail Journal site. Please excuse the typos, I haven't edited it since my transcriber originally posted it. Sometimes she just couldn't make out my scrawl.)

This is part two of a four part series on the differences between these trails:
Part One: People
Part Two: Elements
Part Three: Trail terrain, views, snow
Part Four: Resupply

Appalachian Trail v. Pacific Crest Trail: A Guide to Pick Your Hiking Pleasure, part one: People or Wilderness

They weren’t designated the first National Scenic Trails for nothing. These two premier hiking trails are designed specifically to impart the beauty of their landscapes. (Seriously, trail builders think of these things.)

I awoke to this sunrise after literally sleeping alone under rocks on the PCT.

Both are excellent choices, so whether you’ve finished hiking one of them and are ready to take on the next, or are simply deciding which one to hike for your first-ever thru-hike, here is one of several discernible differences that make each unique.

This analysis is based on northbound thru-hikes of both trails. A southbound hike of the Appalachian Trail offers some distinctions from hiking Georgia to Maine that will offer a completely different experience. (I'm happy to discuss those differences with you.)

The People Factor: The Appalachian Trail has shelters and designated campsites along the way. The Pacific Crest Trail encourages distributed camping by not formalizing camps.

Here’s how it impacts your trip:

Lots of good people, many I still count as best friends, at Eagles Nest Shelter in Penn. in 2003.

On the A.T. shelters tends to organize hikers into condensed clumps, yes clumps, of hikers.  If you stay at shelters or camp nearby them, you may hike alone all day, encountering some hikers along the way, but rest assured, you’ll get to swap stories over meals around the campfire before you snooze. It’s a perk for the extroverts among us, but can be overwhelming to people who came to seek fellowship with the wilderness, as the shelter environment can breed an almost party-like atmosphere, especially within the first 500-miles of the Trail.

I slept alone under these rocks on May 4, 2010 as this spot afforded the most protection from the relentless wind.

On the PCT there are a few formalized campsites, and others that naturally develop around water sources. Without heavily established sites, hikers on the PCT tend to walk until they are ready to stop, rather than walk to an established “destination” for the day. Also, fewer people start thru-hikes of the PCT every year than on the A.T. Given these facts, if you start any time after the ADZPCTKO, you will encounter fewer hikers during the day and at night. It takes a bit more planning to camp with people you enjoy spending time with on the PCT given the low-impact nature of camping, especially if you like to hike alone much of the day.

This is part one of a four part series on the differences between the PCT and the A.T. Tomorrow, I'll discuss the elements. Not the weather, but earth, wind, fire, and water. After that I'll cover terrain, snow, and resupply. If you have requests for other topics, please let me know.

Everything I Need to Know about Life I Learned on the Appalachian Trail

I was listening to Krista Tippett’s On Being interview with Sarah Kay about the power of words, and Sarah explained an exercise she uses as a prompt when working with students to cultivate their self expression. (She used it in her TED talk, too.) The prompt is to answer this: What I know to be True.

When I thought about what I know to be true, it came to me that everything I ever needed to know I learned by hiking the Appalachian Trail, all 2,172 miles of it in six-and-a-half months. That is where this begins.

The end of the Trail, October 4, 2003.

Life isn’t in 4 walls: It isn’t the house that surrounds us. It isn’t in the office where we spend the majority of our days, positioned behind a computer. It is outside in this vast compendium of earthliness – from the smallest critters, like ants, centipedes, and chipmunks – to the calm of a deer grazing without notice of your presence – to the fierce protection a mother grouse has of her nest – to the magic of a bear in his element, his home, not one constructed of four walls, with regular feeding time. The minutiae of the organisms in the dirt. The sun. Time spent in such regular contact with the moon, daily knowing her waxing and waning. By four walls, I also mean the constructs of our society that keep us chained to our “place,” items of imaginary importance – politics, war, violence, “trending” news – like celebrity marriages and children. Why is any of that more important than what we can witness and experience for ourselves, separated from all of that?


Appreciate everything: Seriously, if you can’t find reasons to be in love with something through endless days of rain, there isn’t a way you can complete a six-and-a-half month hike on the Appalachian Trail. Just like life, it has its highs and its lows (sometimes more lows). I couldn’t have completed my 2003 thru-hike during “the rainiest year on record” without a positive outlook, which sometimes meant creating things to be thankful for. Optimism, yes, positive outlook mixed with hope for good to come, goes a long way toward fulfillment.


I am everything. Everything is me: I grew up with Christian principles, and I learned this distinctly eastern philosophy through my direct experience in my 25th year on this planet. It’s hard to capture in a snappy paragraph, but it was hard-won knowledge that left me feeling more compassionate toward the earth and all her animals, including my fellow humans and myself.

I started to connect that if we treat the earth poorly, in our industrial food production systems, for instance, that it returns to us, with unhealthy food choices and unhealthy bodies. I reasoned that we don’t know our food any more. (This was prior to my familiarity with the slow food movement, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle or Omnivore’s Dilemma. I was still a conventional food consumer to the core before my hike, unaware of the food practices plaguing the natural seed banks of our nation.) I suspected that animals carved and sold to us in Styrofoam on things that look like maxi-pads to soak up the blood were part of our disconnect with what we ate. How could we appreciate our food when we didn’t know where it came from? If we couldn’t even bear to see the sight of its blood?

The food system is just one example of the awareness that bubbled up in me during my hike, of the connectivity of life and life cycles on this planet. I became more distinctly aware of my connection to my ancestors (then living and dead), to what impact my words, my “footsteps”, and my actions have on everything and everyone around me. I continue to learn this life lesson; it’s a big one.


The trail gives you what you need: It’s an expression that litters the trail, just like those silly little corners from granola bar and candy wrappers that tend to slip out of fingers or pant pockets (so watch you don’t loose yours). Experienced long-distance hikers dispense this nugget like yoga teachers spout ancient Sanskrit text or Christians throw around John 3:16. It is THE BIGGIE! But hearing it and living it are two different things. I learned it then, but must continually revive it for myself in my off-trail life – faith. It’s nothing but faith.

I started my hike with faith founded in my Lutheran upbringing and the idiom my momma dispensed “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” But before long I came to trust the expression of the trail delivering what I need much more, because the challenges were harder than anything I had faced before.

I had to trust that entering the heavy spring snow of the Great Smoky Mountains I wouldn’t die of exposure, and that I had the right gear and knowledge to stay safe. I had to trust that a wild animal wouldn’t carry off my food, and if it did I could survive. I had to trust that I wouldn’t get lost in an attempt to cross-country navigate in the 100-mile wilderness of Maine. I had to trust that despite walking through a sunken trail that resembled a river and endless days of mud that I wouldn’t develop trench foot or hypothermia. I had to trust that being scared out of my wits by an aggressive grouse was precisely what would be best for me at that moment. See, this phrase didn’t just say “you can handle it” it also went a step further to suggest that it’s necessary growth. It’s what you need.


And, while the trail gave me challenges and obstacles (like scaling vertical ladders on sheer rock faces of New England), it also gave me things like lakes for swimming on a few perfect, sunshiny days, flying a kite from a canoe, easy hitches into town with kind strangers, the soaking rain of a thunderstorm just after I arrived at a shelter, and friends showing up in unusual places. These things, too, were just what I needed, when I needed them.

What if we look at all of life as a perfect dose from the Universe of what we need, trusting that it will all work out? Faith, trust, hope – that’s about all we can do…Oh, and love.


There is no perfect time: There’s now. On my hike I encountered people who lamented not being able to go on a long hike. The secret, the hidden truth, I came to understand after a few conversations that started this way, is that hiking (or insert your dream here….) is accessible to all of us. Each of us can save a few thousand dollars to hike, find a way to jump off the ferris wheel of “life as we know it” and get on the trail. When we leave, things continue. The world doesn’t stop because we we aren’t there to attend meetings, answer the phone, or meet for drinks at the bar on Tuesday. Family, friends, employment, and house…all of it will be there when we come back. But there’s too much that’s fleeting in this life not to go now, especially if it is what you want. This goes for anything, writing a book (write!), dancing (dance!), learning to fly (get a lesson!). Don’t wait. There may never be a better time than right this instance!

Another way to say it: there is fear and the excuses bred by those fears, and there is doing. Please, for the lova’, be a doer! (Note: I reminding myself of this lesson again and again and again…preachin’ to me and you!)

_________________________________________


What do you know to be true? 

(Sarah would challenge you to elaborate. Don’t write just one word, but explain what it is, where it comes from…Go! You have 2 minutes!)