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.
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