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.

Self-Reliance

What I carry most from my time in scouting is self-reliance. That adventurous boyhood struck a match. The Marines just poured gasoline on it. 

Everything I learned in Boy Scouts—how to pitch a tent, follow a map, tie knots, make a fire, read the sky—these were more than just skills. They were quiet lessons in trust: not just trusting the gear, but trusting myself. That trust deepened during my time in the Corps. The woods became second nature, and hardship became something to manage, not fear. I know I can handle whatever comes my way out there. 

That’s not bravado—it’s experience. I’ve been cold and wet, I’ve been lost, I’ve run on empty, and I’ve kept going. 

There’s a part of me—always has been—that knows how to act in the woods, how to assess, adapt, and endure. 

That knowledge gives me peace when I think about the Appalachian Trail. 

It’s not that I expect it to be easy. I know it won’t be. 

But somewhere inside me is a deep fortitude, a stubborn strength that kicks in when things get hard. I’ve met that version of myself before. I’m counting on him to show up again when the time comes.

Becoming

What scares me the most about this hike isn’t the blisters, the cold rain, or the black bears. It’s that I know the trail will change me. 

Twenty-two weeks living outside, walking more than 2,000 miles—of course it will change me. 

I look forward to who I might become, or maybe who I’ll rediscover. I hope the trail burns away the noise and leaves something raw and true. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid. 

There’s a version of myself I haven’t met yet—someone forged in isolation and sweat and hunger—and I don’t know what he’ll be like. What if I lose the me I know and don’t like the version that comes out the other side? 

I’ve already been to some dark places in my mind. PTSD has dragged me into the shadows more than once. I’ve sobbed on the side of a running trail at night during ultramarathon training, broken by the weight of invisible things. I know what it means to unravel. I know the terrain of my own collapse. 

And yet, I’m going. 

I crave the fire that melts away the false parts of me. 

I just hope that in losing myself, I find something better—or truer—waiting underneath.

Feral Promises

For the past month, I’ve been obsessed with thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. 

It’s a dream I’ve carried since boyhood—since my very first backpacking trip up Mt. San Jacinto with my scout troop in California. I remember my scoutmaster talking about the Appalachian Trail like it was a holy place. I swore I’d never backpack again after that first trip. And yet, I never missed another one. 

Now, at 42, I feel that boy stirring again. But it’s not nostalgia driving this—it’s urgency. 

My body has been breaking in ways I can’t ignore. A slipped L5-S1 disk has dropped me to the floor more than once—once so badly my wife had to call the fire department. Four men lifted me off the ground and into an ambulance. I missed weeks of work and hobbled with a cane. A second episode happened recently. Not as dramatic, but enough to scare me. Enough to wake something up. 

My dad died at 68. Dialysis three times a week. Congestive heart failure. A string of heart attacks. Two of my brothers have diabetes. Another wrestles with recurring skin cancer. My mom is on her 2nd pacemaker. I see the trajectory, and I refuse to accept it without a fight. 

If I wait, I may never go. And I refuse to spend the next 20 years nursing regret.

Years ago, before Jayme and I got married, we took a long walk through El Dorado Park and had one of those talks—the kind where you lay everything bare. 

I told her then: sometimes I need to do wild things. I need to stay connected to my feral self. I said, “If someday I tell you I need to go hike the Appalachian Trail or bike the Continental Divide, I need you to support that.” She promised she would. 

Here I am. Gear mostly bought. Sleep system tested. Stoves compared, meals tried. I’m even saving to cover my debts and to care for Jayme and the animals while I’m away. I want to send her flowers. Hire a dog sitter when she needs a break. Maybe fly her out to the halfway point. Maybe the end. 

 I plan to step off April 1, 2026.