Double-Digits

I walked 18 miles today.

Not fast. Not heroically. Just steady. One foot after the other, letting the day unfold instead of trying to conquer it. My legs knew what to do before my head caught up — which felt like a small mercy.

It was Double-Digit Day.

Ninety-nine days until my flight.

Seeing the number drop like that didn’t spark adrenaline the way I thought it might. Instead, it landed quietly. Solid. Real. This isn’t some distant idea anymore — it’s approaching at a walking pace, whether I’m ready or not.

Somewhere around mile twelve, the noise finally turned down. Not gone, just lowered enough to hear my breath again. That’s usually when I remember why I’m doing this. Not for miles. Not for gear. But for that moment when everything unnecessary loosens its grip.

I’ve been carrying a lot lately — more than what shows up on a scale.

I picked up a new pack to better handle bulky vegan food. Plant calories take up space. Volume matters. Shape matters. What you carry changes how you move. The new pack rides better. The weight sits where it should. Nothing dramatic — just a redistribution that makes forward motion feel possible again.

That felt like more than a gear upgrade.

There’s a lot happening off trail right now. Things I can’t solve with spreadsheets, pacing strategies, or better packing. I’m learning — slowly — that preparation doesn’t mean control. It means staying upright when things are unresolved and continuing anyway.

Eighteen miles didn’t fix anything.

But it reminded me that my body still works. That I can move forward even when my mind is busy elsewhere. That even with a heavy pack — bulky food, unresolved feelings, quiet grief, stubborn hope — I don’t have to stop.

Ninety-nine days out doesn’t feel like pressure.

It feels like alignment beginning to take shape.

Tomorrow doesn’t need to be heroic.

Neither does today.

Just keep walking.

Leaving for Growth

Lately I’ve been feeling the pull of home more than I expected. I haven’t even left yet—still seven months to go—and I already find myself missing work, my team, the rhythm of the kitchen. I’ve worked hard to get to this place, and it shows. I’m confident in my abilities now. I know how to handle setbacks, how to pivot when things don’t go as planned. I’ve earned trust, and I know the crew counts on me to keep things steady.

Stepping away from that isn’t easy.

I’ve built something solid, something I’m proud of. A kitchen that runs with purpose. A team that works hard, laughs hard, and shows up for each other. BriAnne and I have worked together a long time—we’ve built a strong working relationship based on trust and respect. I know not seeing her each day is going to hit me harder than I thought.

Lately I’ve been wondering if I’m making the right decision. What am I walking away from? What am I missing while I’m gone? But I also know if I don’t go now, I might never go. This hike has been on my mind for years, and the timing is finally lining up. Still, every choice means giving something else up. That’s just the truth of it.

I’ve been walking more. Tweaking my gear, refining my pack, adjusting straps and pouches so things are just where I want them. I know once I’m actually out there, the trail will shape everything. What works now might fall apart in the first week. And that’s fine—I’ve dealt with worse in a kitchen rush. I know how to adapt, improvise, and move forward when things fall apart.

That mindset—years of it—will serve me well out there. Weather will change. Plans will go sideways. There might not be a vegan option. But just like in the kitchen, I’ll find a way to keep moving.

Still… there’s a part of me that aches for what I’m leaving behind. That’s how I know it matters. That’s how I know it’s real. And maybe that’s the price of choosing something new—carrying the weight of what you’re setting down.

But I’m not running from anything. I’m stepping into something I’ve earned the right to chase. And when I come back, I hope I bring something even stronger to the table.

Waiting Season

It’s been a rough week at work.

I love the people I work with—but I’m gaining some clarity. I’m starting to see just how much of myself I’m giving away. I feel exploited. I feel wrung out. I don’t enjoy what I’m doing, at least not for the amount of time and energy it demands. And it’s getting harder to pretend otherwise.

On Sunday, I went for a short hike with my full pack. Just three miles—a trail I’ve done a hundred times. Nothing dramatic. But this time, I had all my gear on my back. The same gear I’ll be carrying with me to Georgia in 298 days.

It felt good. Solid. Like it was real.

I won’t pretend my stoke level is pinned at 100. It’s not. Now that I’ve bought all my gear, the hype has quieted. I feel like I’m just... waiting. And I don’t wait well. I’m the type that thrives on momentum, on motion. When there’s no measurable action to take, it’s like sitting in a cage with the door open but a leash still clipped to my collar.

Sure, I could dive into more research. Start mapping out town stops, resupply points, places to stay. And maybe I will. But there’s also part of me that wants to not plan every detail. I want to leave room for surprise—for problem-solving, for serendipity, for finding out what kind of person I am when things don’t go according to plan.

So I’ll wait. And I’ll keep working. And I’ll hike when I can.

But something deep inside me already knows—I’ve started leaving. The journey has already begun.

First Weight

I put my pack on for the first time today.

It’s not completely dialed in yet. A few small pieces are still on the way, and I didn’t pack any food. But almost everything that will come with me to Georgia was stuffed inside. Twenty pounds on my back.

And somehow, it made my soul feel lighter.

I’ve spent months obsessing over every little thing. Clothing, water filtration, sleeping pads and bags, the perfect titanium spoon. I practiced using a bottle bidet, debated between different pouches, weighed every option (literally and figuratively). This has been a process of endless decisions.

And yet today, for the first time, it all came together. It was no longer a spreadsheet or a pile of gear on my floor. It was on me.

I stood there, in my room, feeling the weight settle onto my hips—and almost started to cry. The emotion came quietly, but powerfully. Tears welled up.

This is happening. I’m really going to do this.

I walked into the bathroom, wanting to see myself. Pack on my back, I faced the mirror. It was me in the reflection, but it also wasn’t. There was something different in the eyes staring back.

I looked proud.

I am proud.

Why I Hike

I’ve spent my whole life in service.

As a boy scout, I served my community. As a Marine, I served my country. In homeless services I gave my everything to those with nothing. In the kitchen, I’ve served thousands of people from my callused aching hands.

And somewhere along the way, I forgot how to serve myself.

I’ve put off comfort, joy, and even new shoes, thinking I hadn’t earned them. That others came first. That my needs could wait.

But this hike?

This is mine.

I hike to remember that I am allowed to want something for no other reason than it fills my soul.

I hike to shed the guilt that says my joy must be earned.

I hike because the quiet is a gift I don’t have to justify.

I hike because the trail doesn’t ask me to be anyone’s hero, anyone’s worker, or anyone’s provider. It only asks that I show up.

And for once, I will.

Middle-Grounder

Lately, I’ve been watching video blogs, reading books, and soaking up every short film I can find about thru-hiking. 

I’m trying to imagine myself out there—weeks or even months into my hike.

Maybe by then I’ll feel like I know what I’m doing. Maybe I’ll feel at home. I wonder if I’ll get bored. If I’ll crave silence or connection. Will I hike alone most of the time? Will I find a trail family? Will I bounce between hostels for the camaraderie or book solo hotel rooms to recharge in solitude? 

I feel like I already know myself well enough to guess—it’ll be both. I’ll swing between solitude and company, depending on the day, the weather, my mood. 

I’m so social in my daily life. At work, I pour myself into conversation, into people. I imagine the trail will feel like a reprieve at first. But I also know I thrive on banter, on quick wit, on bad dad jokes. 

I’m curious to see who I become when there’s no one around to bounce that off of. 

Or maybe there will be. 

Maybe I’ll find kindred spirits out there. Maybe I’ll walk alone for days, and then suddenly find a friend in the middle of nowhere who laughs at all the same dumb things I do. 

Will I have those cinematic, main-character moments—alone at a scenic overlook, watching the mist rise off the mountains? Or will those moments be interrupted by noisy strangers? And if they are… will that ruin the moment, or make it richer in ways I can’t yet imagine? There are so many unknowns. 

And with an experience this fluid, where each day brings new weather, new terrain, new faces… I feel the uncertainty. Not fear exactly—just a hum of curiosity wrapped in doubt. 

I’m not the typical thru-hiker. I’m not fresh out of college, grabbing one last wild adventure before surrendering to the 9-to-5. I’m not retired, checking this off the life list now that time and money allow. I’m a middle-aged middle-grounder, pressing pause on my career and walking away from a home full of love and responsibility. 

I’m not riding a transition—I’m forcing one. 

And that, I think, is what makes this real.

The Weight of Why

Today I’ve been thinking a lot about my why. 

“Because I want to” feels like it should be enough. 

But I’m afraid that some days, it won’t be.

I’ve been to hard places before. I know there will be moments on trail where I’m cold, hungry, hurting, and wondering what the hell I’m doing out there. In those moments, I worry that wanting it won’t be enough to keep going. 

 So I’ve thought about bringing name tapes—guys I served with in the Marines who took their own lives. Maybe their names could give me the strength to press on. I’ve considered fundraising for Best Friends, turning this walk into something bigger than just me. 

But then I pause and ask—why do I feel like I need to justify this? Why isn’t it enough that I’m doing this for me? 

This trail is an opportunity to return to myself. To walk not with guilt, but with intention. To carry no responsibility except to be safe, to nourish my body, and to listen—to the wind, the birds, the silence, and myself. 

Maybe I don’t need to hike for anyone else. Maybe I can just hike for me. 

 But guilt has always been a heavy pack to carry. I fear that somewhere deep down, I still believe I have to earn this. That caring for myself—wholly and unapologetically—is selfish. And if the excitement fades, if the trail gets too hard, I worry I’ll quit. Not because I’m weak, but because I laid guilt on top of a dream. 

 I’m trying to unlearn that. 

I’m trying to believe that wanting this is reason enough.