The Grand Canyon, Arizona

Four years after my first hike, and with a college degree in hand, I was now free to go wherever I chose. Naturally, I ended up somewhere I never would have expected: Santa Fe, New Mexico. My aforementioned friend, Jane, and her husband Dick (yes, like Dick and Jane...Smith, no less) were ending their time in Alaska and approached me with a job proposal in youth work in their more permanent residence of Santa Fe. I applied on a whim, was hired, and moved across the U.S., site unseen. What I found is that New Mexico truly is the land of Enchantment (or entrapment, as the locals like to say). Santa Fe is a metropolis of museums, galleries, rustic adobe homes with turquoise doors to ward off evil spirits, and the most amazing array of food I've ever encountered in a town of its size. I love it and have now called it home for four years. It is also a town of avid nature lovers. The town provides easy access to day hikes, and is centrally located to several more intense hikes throughout the southwest.

My job helped me to fall right into the community, which was very friendly, and very enthusiastic to welcome another Alaska connection to their midst. One family in my youth program in particular helped me feel right at home: the Swards. The dad, Mark, is one of many outdoors fanatics in the area, and has a son who is very involved in the Boy Scouts. He and his family have been hiking together for years, and were plotting a return trip to the Grand Canyon just after I arrived. I was invited to join, and immediately agreed. The trip took place over Thanksgiving week, and included his daughter and soon to be son-in-law, both of whom were near my age. Mark would also bring their youngest son, Jeff, and his buddy from school.

The eight hour drive to the Grand Canyon went by relatively quickly, as we sped along desert paths under the intense winter sunshine. When we reached Flagstaff we entered into slightly more mountainous, wooded terrain. Despite all the ravings I'd heard about the canyon, nothing, not even world-class photographs, could prepare me for the real thing. On the long road out to the park, glimpses of the canyon began to peak through the trees as we drove. By this time the sun was setting, and Mark was racing against the clock to give me my first view of the canyon before dark.

As we approached the gate, several other cars had pulled over to take a glimpse at the sunset over the South Rim of the Canyon. What I saw literally brought me to tears and cannot be expressed in words. There is something so overwhelmingly....well, grand, about it that it takes your breath away. We watched as the sun set, making the canyon dance with moving shadows and changing lighting. The moon was already rising and taking its turn on the stage. That night after dinner we walked out the back doors of our cabin to see the full moon over the canyon, illuminating the depths like a black and white photograph, giving the canyon a spooky, almost ghost-like appearance. Like so many before me, I was officially hooked.

Day One on the trail began later than intended, as we enjoyed a casual breakfast before heading down the South Bright Angel Trail to Indian Gardens. Along the way are posted signs that warn of the dangers of hiking the canyon, such as dehydration and exhaustion. For hikers with a fear of heights, the first bit of the trail takes some getting used to. The trail is plenty wide, but the depth into the canyon is so immediate and extreme that it easily causes vertigo. The key is to take your time, stick to the wall of the canyon, and use hiking poles when possible. I found these especially helpful in relieving some of the stress from my knees and hips. Hiking a vertical mile down can be deceivingly harder than the hike back up.

We arrived at Indian Gardens by mid afternoon, set up camp, and, free from our packs, took a quick jaunt out to the edge of the Tonto level. This is the ridge on both sides of the canyon that roughly marks the halfway point down to the Colorado River at the bottom. There, we admired the view from a new perspective and soaked up some of the heat, which gets more intense further into the canyon.

Day Two was, again, downhill along miles of switchbacks. Already we could feel the effects of using different muscle groups than our usual uphill climbs. As we reached the bottom we came to the Black and Silver bridges that cross the Colorado River. I had brought an old photograph of my dad on Silver Bridge and used it to recreate the same shot of myself.

That night we set up camp in the grounds at Phantom Ranch. Phantom Ranch is the main camp at the bottom of the canyon. Here, cabins host visitors who take the mule trains into the canyon. A dining facility serves steak dinners, beer, and a wide selection of candy and other rare trail luxuries. While exploring the ranch I found a pay phone, which I found humorously out of place. For fun, I made a collect phone call to my parents, who were equally humored and amused to hear from me. That is, until they received the $30 phone bill in the mail.

Day Three we awoke to cold temperatures, which quickly rose as the sun warmed the canyon. We left our camp gear in place and hiked up to the Tonto Level on the North Rim. Without our packs, we climbed the steep switchbacks with ease. Unfortunately, Marie (Mark's daughter) sat on a cactus during our lunch break, so she and her fiance, Stephen, returned to camp early to remove cactus stickers. The rest of us went on to explore a dry waterfall bed further up the trail.

Day Three also happened to be Thanksgiving Day! We hoped to snag any extra steak dinners from Phantom Ranch, but alas, they were booked solid. Coming prepared for such a scenario, we boiled water and ate Mountain House mashed potatoes, stuffing with turkey, and berry cobbler for dessert. Not a bad Thanksgiving Meal, all things considered.

Day Four was the hardest day I have experienced on the trail, ever. Mark planned for us to hike out in one morning, on the steepest assent out of the canyon: the South Kaibab Trail. Mark's youngest son, Jeff, and his buddy Henry seemed to fly up the switchbacks. Marie and I held up the rear as we steadily chugged our way up the vertical mile of canyon wall. We played leap frog with mule trains, who left the trail lined with fresh wet droppings as they went. Tourists waved each time they rode by on the mule train. Their smiles and our agony rather clashed, and we found ourselves muttering all sorts of things under our breath as they passed us again and again.

I have never been so in tune with the fuel quality of food as on that trail. Every time my energy ran low I ate a piece of a granola bar, or part of the bagels we'd finagled from Phantom Ranch, and immediately noticed the difference when returning to the trail. Three hours in, we finally reached a lookout one mile from the top of the trail. Here, we rewarded ourselves with King Size Snickers bars, the delight of which I cannot underline enough. The last mile was frustrating, as day hikers skipped down the trail, ignoring that we, as exhausted uphill climbers (with packs, no less) had the right of way. When we finally reached the top, I laid down on the flat ground and promised my muscles I'd never ask anything else from them again.

Of course, within an hour we already felt back to our normal selves, and were packed and heading back to New Mexico. By evening, it felt surreal that we'd hiked seven miles up a canyon wall earlier that day. I cannot fathom how some will hike down and up in a single day, while others run from rim to rim without stopping. However, all of those who have completed the excursion from top to bottom in some fashion or other, I feel, share in a collective pride, knowing what our bodies are capable of when we give ourselves a chance. 

The Chilkoot Trail, Dyea/Skagway, South East Alaska

I was now in my senior year at the University of Alaska Anchorage. Already tired of winter, my closest college friend and I began dreaming up post-graduation summer backpacking possibilities. Cassie, the daughter of an educator and anthropologist, was born in Nome, lived in Bethel for several years, and finished high school in Juneau. Up the Marine Highway from Juneau, just outside of Skagway, is the start of a historically famous trail - the Chilkoot, which Cassie was enthusiastic to show me. 

The Chilkoot trail was charted during the Klondike Gold Rush, over a century before. It served as the footpath into Canada to the Yukon and British Columbia, then on to Dawson City and beyond, where dreamers risked everything to strike it rich. Nowadays, panning for gold has lost its luster, but hikers still travel the thirty-plus miles to Bennett Lake, where they catch the train back into the U.S. Perhaps the most famous aspect of the trail is the Golden Staircase, about half-way in, which is featured on the Disney classic, White Fang. In winter, the steep climb was chiseled into steps to ease the way for hikers burdened with, literally, tons of gear required by rangers to enter into Canada. 

We left the gold mining gear at home and traveled “light” with fifty-pound packs. This year I was excited to try out my very own REI women’s excursion pack, a college graduation present from my parents. This was also my first venture into the woods outside of my Women Afoot hiking clan. The group consisted of my best friend, her mom and sister, her two cousins, and a boyfriend she’d picked up toward the end of the school year. They’re now married, so I guess you could say they found their own treasure in the trail together. 

Our journey began days before we hit the trail itself, as Cassie’s boyfriend, Brian, and I drove sixteen hours straight from Anchorage to Skagway, through west Canada. We then took the Fast Ferry south to Juneau where we met up with Cassie and her family, and hiked Juneau’s steep Mount Roberts, a nice precursor to the trip. After celebrating the fourth of July on the docks of the capital city, we headed north and stayed in a bunk house in Skagway. In our downtime, we perused the main strip of fake store fronts, touristy t-shirt shops, jewelry stores catering to the cruise ships, and walking tours hosted by gals in can-can dresses. 

Early on day one of our hike, we hooked up with the local hiker taxi system (a bearded driver with a rusty yellow van that barely started). Once he left us at the trailhead, we were on our own. The trail started off with a few miles of steep switchbacks into the rainforest eco-system of the southeast. It was a good warm-up for the muscles, not to mention a stunning trek over cascading streams and bogs of low-growing wildflowers. 

The camp sites along the trail are nicely maintained with tent platforms, outhouses, and bear boxes for food. For users of the winter cabins, firewood is provided on the U.S. side and toilet paper provided on the Canadian end of the trail. This was fortunate for us, as I clumsily dropped an entire role of toilet paper into the outhouse on our first night out. 

I thoroughly enjoyed the variations in the trail menu that comes with a different group of hikers. Apparently, outfitters sell tubes for easy packing of luxuries like peanut butter, jelly, and my personal favorite, Nutella! We also shared a long log of summer sausage, with cheese and crackers. These were all heavier foods, so we planned accordingly and ate them first. Breakfast was simple: instant oatmeal packages, which can be eaten by carefully pouring hot water into the packages themselves, saving on sticky dishes to wash. We also shared basic trail commodities like homemade gorp and granola bars. For dinner we explored the varieties of Mountain House, which I love and enthusiastically recommend. They're not always cheap, but they're worth it for a hassle-free dinner after sliding into camp. 


Day two was much the same as the first, as we continued to climb higher into the mountains. Weather was chilly and damp, if not raining. Suspension bridges made for easy river crossings. We enjoyed searching for historic artifacts along the trail, like old tools, abandoned iron stoves, and at one point, an entire steam engine tucked away in the woods. 

Day three was the real doozy, during which we hiked the Golden Staircase. The climb to the bottom of the staircase is difficult in itself, with pelting rain and snow, water running down the trail, making it nearly impossible to stay dry. Temperatures dropped drastically by noon as we reach the base of the steepest part of the climb. We took a break to switch into dry gear before ascending the steep rock face. 

As we climbed, or crawled, up the golden staircase (which is not actually carved into stair steps any longer...), Cassie told of her first assent in which it was so sunny and warm that she literally had sun blisters when she reached the top. We were not so lucky. The top was especially difficult, with sheets of ice hindering our grip, footing and balance with our packs. As we pulled ourselves over the top shelf onto the Canadian side of the trail, we met a newlywed Canadian couple ascending at the same time. The wife was not accustom to hiking and was certain she would die on the steep rock face. She was ecstatic to see us again as we warmed up together in the unheated cabin at the top of the climb. While we were all exhausted, we were far from done for the day. We had several more miles to go over ice fields to lower elevations. We finally made it to the appropriately named Happy Camp several hours later. Happy Camp was our first night in Canada. We were impressed to find sturdy tent platforms and clean outhouses, not to mention dryer weather and stunning views. This was the busiest camp site on the trail and we quickly made friends with our neighbors. 

After spending Day 3 in rain, fog, ice, and snow, Day 4 felt significantly warmer than it really was. Glad to be out of the rain, we enjoyed a dry hike in long-sleeved shirts as we circumnavigated one of many large, stunningly pristine lakes. We passed a few Canadian rangers hiking the trail, all of whom were very friendly. We passed the skeleton of an old miner's canoe and a decaying pair of women's boots left behind a century ago. 

We spent our fourth night by a lake, in which Cassie's crazy cousin decided to go for a swim. Even in July, the glacier-fed water proved too cold to "enjoy" for long. After he dried off and we set up our tents, we shared our last dinner together on the trail.

In retrospect, I think this was the hardest hike I'd done to date. We covered most of the 30-plus miles in four days, climbed the highest peak I'd ever scaled with a pack, walked on snow fields in July, all the while keeping our passports securely dry inside our packs for re-entry to the U.S. 

On day-5 we all managed a second wind of energy and practically ran to Bennett Lake. There, we waited for the train to arrive with tourists from Skagway. Upon their arrival, the train depot opened for lunch. Hikers had to use the back entrance so as not to disturb the ambiance for the other visitors... After several hardy bowls of beef stew and handfuls of cornbread, we hugged the train, found our seats and slept most of the journey back to Skagway. After we all showered and found the only clean clothes we had left, we went for what proved to be the best burger and fries of my life. This always seems to be the case after a few days on the trail. 

The Chilkoot is an experience I'd recommend to anyone who is up for a bit of a challenge. It may be a bit cold and steep in some places, but the views, variation in terrain, and remnants of history along the trail make it one of the most fascinating, rewarding, and enjoyable trails I've ever hiked. 

Byers Lake Hike, Denali State Park, Alaska

By year three it went without question that I would return with the girls for my annual week in the woods. I no longer dreaded the first day back in the pack. If anything, I began to long for the sore muscles and cleansing feeling of ridding my body of the lattes, junk food, and pollutants of my everyday diet. My boots, worn in even more with occasional day hikes throughout the fall and spring, now fit like a glove. I knew my typical “hot spots” and could wrap my toes accordingly with moleskin, like a pro. On a college budget, I still longed for more gear of my own, but would have to wait for school to end to build my own collection. 

The 2005 trail choice was finally announced in late spring: Byers Lake, Denali State Park. We were heading north! Despite my love for south central Alaska, I was thrilled to finally enter into Denali State Park. I grew up in Willow, south of the park, with a stunning view of Denali. The mountain was 300 miles north of the local lookout spot. But with the summit at approximately four miles above sea level, it was so vast that I felt I could reach out and touch it. Granted, we wouldn’t be too near the mountain in terms of hiking, but it was exciting to explore the wilderness surrounding The Great One, and be in the park itself. 

This year my mom would, unfortunately, not be joining us. My best childhood friend had heard enough of my ravings about the group and was finally convinced to sign up. Mom said she wanted to give me and my friend a chance to experience the trail together. However, I’m not convinced it was really Latanya's presence so much as the “senior citizen” treatment Mom had received the year before (of which I am partly, and regrettably, guilty) that lead her to stay home. 

The ride to the trailhead took several hours from Anchorage. It was nearly two hours just to my hometown of Willow, and then several more past Talkeetna Junction, Trapper Creek, and into the long stretch of vast wilderness between Trapper Creek and Fairbanks. 

By the time we finally pulled over and collected our bags at the trailhead, it was nearing midday. We lightened our loads as we ate an early lunch, stretched, and worked ourselves up to hit the trail. We were joined by one more backpacker at the trailhead, a dear, dear woman named Jane Smith. I didn’t know Jane very well at the time; little did I know that we would soon become close friends. Eventually I would even follow her and her husband south to Santa Fe, New Mexico, for my first real job after school. 

The first day of hiking was pretty short and simple. In fact, the plan this year wasn’t all that difficult in general. Byers Lake sits right against the Parks Highway. The camp site was on the other side of the lake, giving us less than 2.5 miles of trail to cover that afternoon. Latanya, my childhood buddy, and I hiked together and caught up after years of being apart at separate universities. We laughed and reminisced over childhood memories. 

As we walked we also listened to Mindy, our group nurse, vent about her frustrations in wilderness survival training preceding the trip. Despite her long career as a nurse, this was her first year as nurse on the trail. In training, they had gone over a variety of worst case scenarios, in which nearly every case ended with “There’s nothing you can do; just make them comfortable.” Not used to such a dismal outlook for her patients, Mindy was a bit of a nervous reck. They had given her a little red backpacker's pillow as her aid in comforting her patients. The camp joke quickly evolved into “making us comfortable” as a solution to nearly everything. The red pillow was quickly produced at the slightest sign of scratches or aches of any kind. 

Day two through four were all planned as long day hikes. Trail guides talked of beautiful lookouts toward Denali through various routes up a mountainside abutting the campsite. Unfortunately, by the night of day-one, the weather turned from sunny to overcast, with dense fog and drizzling rain. In southern trails this would not have been such an issue. However, the trail guide warned of these conditions and strongly cautioned against hiking in them, due to poor site of the trail, and easy disorientation. 

One day of rain and low fog turned into several, leaving us stuck at camp nearly the entire week. At one point clouds lifted enough for us to check out a nearby waterfall, which was lovely. By this time it also felt good just to stretch our legs and get out of the tents. During our time together stuck at camp, we played many games of Phase Ten, some of which lasted several hours. 

Finally, on day four, one group decided to hike the rest of the way around the lake, back to the ranger station at the road. There they rented kayaks and brought them over to our site, where we took turns floating around on the lake. Loons floated nearby, fish jumped, mosquitoes hovered in swarms above the lake, and minos scurried around under the surface. 

It was rather surprising that we never saw bear or moose on the trail, since they are so common around the park. We did see bear scat, and even a large, fresh paw print. But it was the morning of our last day that we received an unexpected guest to our site. As we finished our oatmeal and began to pack up our tents, we all turned and looked toward the trail as a large wolf walked up the path. At first we oohed and awed, thinking it might be a husky mix that had trotted ahead of its owner. But we surveyed the large paws, heard no sign of a hiking companion, and quickly realized that we were dealing with a notoriously unpredictable wild animal. At that, we scurried together to appear very large and loud and frighten him away. Even the red pillow was called into play to hold high and make us look tall and vicious. Thinking we must be crazy, he did finally wander off. 

While this year was not the most adventurous, or even remotely difficult, it was still a wonderful repose from daily life, and a welcome break from buildings and traffic. To this day I have not returned to reattempt the trails east of the campsite. However, I recommend the site to any who wishes to see Denali State Park without the greater risks of some of the more remote and less trafficked trails. 

Caine's Head Trail, Seward, Alaska

At the end of my first backpacking experience on Johnson Pass the previous year, I was fairly certain I would never venture into the woods again. However, my first year of college and the mounting stress of the real world made me long for some peace and quiet away from the bustling city of Anchorage. My confidence in my own outdoor abilities did take a big boost on the JP 30 mile hike the year before, and soon I was talking to my mom about signing up for Women Afoot adventure number two.

This year a new leader chose Caine's Head Trail, a beach hike out of Seward, Alaska. The main trail is about four miles long, with lots of longer day hikes from a well set-up camp site area. The trail is much flatter, though, should you decide to try this trail, walking long distances on sand for the first time is not as easy as it sounds.

Once again, the group was comprised of about ten women, mostly twice my age and then some, though in far better condition. This year I started out with much more enthusiasm, partly due to sunny weather, which is rare for the Kenai Fjords. I also remembered and longed for the way I felt after a week of backpacker meals and day after day of exercise. I had never before felt so in sync with my body and what I put in it as when I left the JP trail.

This year we had the added challenge of watching tide changes and scheduling our hike around the rise and fall of the water. Alaska sees some of the biggest tide changes in the world, so it's easy to find long stretches of beach hidden hours later under several feet of ocean water. One does not wish to be trapped against the cliff rocks with nowhere to stand when this happens.

Another added challenge to this hike was bouldering around piles of rock, some of which were pretty high and sometimes wet and slippery. Suddenly, I found myself becoming very aware of my 56 year old mother, who suddenly seemed fragile to me. Granted, she didn't feel this way in the least, but we soon discovered that she was one of the oldest hikers in the group, and she was frequently treated as such. She grew increasingly peeved with other hikers who tried to lend her a hand or suggested she go a different route through rocks when she felt completely capable of following the rest of us. My growing concern for aging parents met head on with how proud I was of her for proving what she was made of.

When we arrived at the camp site, it was, of course, raining again, which is typical of Alaska's southern rainforest areas. We followed the lead of the main guide, who suggested we pitch our tents under the covered shelter. Mom wasn't too thrilled with this idea, since it was used as a food shelter and we all knew it was a bad idea to camp near our food. But no one else seemed too worried about it, so we went about pitching our tent, gathering water, and laying out food to start dinner.

In the days that followed, we enjoyed several day hikes, some of which 8-10 miles long. These went by in a breeze without the weight of our packs. In the area are several rundown military barracks from World War II, fascinating relics now being swallowed in moss and new growth.

The end of one trail comes to a pebble beach, which we happened to reach as the sun was breaking through the clouds. I can safely say this is the only time, in nearly twenty years of living in Alaska, that I sunbathed on the beach, however briefly. We passed our lunch break watching ships go out to sea. The water was several shades of blue and turquoise. The mountains on the other side of the water were mossy green, and covered with families of Puffins.

We never saw the bears on the trail that we'd heard so much about. But we did see lots of wild berries on the walk back to camp. We picked wild raspberries along the trail, some as big or bigger than the pads of my thumbs! They were sweet and delicious. A wonderful trail snack.

By Friday we were all ready to head home, refreshed by the walks, the views, and the good company. Only one woman proved to be disruptive, as her outdoor background was more geared toward sport hunting, in which most of us had no interest. Her husband "forced" her to break the cardinal rule and pack a firearm, which is strictly against the Women Afoot philosophy, and generally unnecessary for a group as large as ours. This made some of us very uncomfortable, and relieved when her pack was thrown in her own truck at the end of the week.

The hike out was the highlight of the trip for me, despite the rain and tight race against the tide. I was at the head of the line, now becoming the fastest hiker in the group, and was the first to turn most corners of rock cliffs and changes in the shore line. At one corner, I looked up in time to spot a mature male bald eagle perched on a piece of drift wood ahead of us. Startling him, he quickly took off, no more than twenty feet away from me. His wing span was incredible! He was wider than I was tall. He was brilliant as he glided out over the water and away into the sky. As a child I had only seen eagles from far away, little dots perched on tree tops. For the first time ever I appreciated them in their full grandeur.

This year, on the drive home, I knew I was hooked and would be back the next year. In the meantime, there were many day hikes to explore.

Johnson Pass, Kenai Penninsula, Alaska

When my parents moved our family from Iowa to rural Alaska in 1990, it is amazing how much of the midwest we managed to bring with us. Over time we began to integrate characteristics of Alaskan life into our own, such as switching out beef stew meat for moose. We were enthralled with the mushing culture that permeated our little town, and loved hearing bear stories and other adventures from seasoned trail goers. But we ourselves enjoyed the woods mostly from the view of the road to town or the windows of our cozy cabin. Other than scenic Sunday drives in the mountains, we didn't wander too far off the trail for fear of the "what ifs" that make Alaska so legendary. My brothers, avid Boy Scouts, were the exception to the rule. By junior high, they were building snow caves and backpacking in the Hatcher's Pass wilderness area near our town. I, however, was never allowed to tag along. So when I was 18 and my mom suggested we sign up together for a week-long, all women, leave-no-trace-behind backpacking camp, I agreed out of curiosity.

Mom and I went over and over the packing list before we left home, double and triple checking our packs for swiss army knives, water bottles, moleskin (whatever that was), first aid supplies, hiker dish soap, and so on. Both of us were using my brothers' backpacks, neither of which fit us very comfortably. Despite the "training" we'd done that spring to prepare, I was completely taken back the first time I put on my full pack. Having never done anything this difficult, my whole body ached, wondering how I was ever going to haul it thirty miles.

The trail, chosen by our guide, was Johnson Pass, about two hours south of Anchorage on the Seward Highway. The trail itself was about 30 miles long, with a few thousand feet of elevation change. I was the youngest girl on the trip. The second youngest was nearly twice my age. I looked around at all these mountain women with awe. They were mostly all seasoned hikers, with the exception being me and my mom. They awaited the trail with great anticipation and enthusiasm. At 7am, when we arrived at the trailhead, all I wanted to do was go back to sleep.

By one or two miles in, my first pair of new hiking boots were already giving me grief. It was raining, as it always does in southern Alaska in the summer. So, getting into our packs was tricky without getting everything wet. I learned so much in that first day on the trail. I didn't know that a forming blister was a "hot spot," and that moleskin could be put on to cover, or even prevent a forming blister. I learned the art of layering the hard way; first, my rain gear plus my hiking gear was too much. Then the rain gear on its own was too little. I learned how to operate a can of bear spray, use a trowel, hike with a borrowed pole, and to sit without taking off my pack. However, despite all of these wonderful new tricks to think on, I was tired and in a terrible mood by lunch. When we did finally stop for food, in the pouring rain with no canopy for protection, we pulled out our lunch marked "day 1." It was something to the effect of trail mix (or gorp), beef jerky, string cheese, and peanut butter crackers. This was a far cry from my teenage diet of cheeseburgers and Dr. Pepper, which made me all the grumpier. So I glared at my mother, and silently forced my body to keep moving.

Finally, over ten miles in and well over 1500 feet of elevation gain later, we arrived at our camp site. It was stretched out along a beautiful lake, with loons and big fish in the water. We were to set up tents here for two nights, with an optional day hike the next day (which I, of course, declined). Mom and I set up our tent to share, a fun venture in itself for a mom and her angsty teenage daughter. I awaited dinner with unbridled enthusiasm, and was greatly disappointed to find something called "hummus" on the menu. I looked longingly over the mashed potatoes and cheese as they cooked, but was silently furious that someone ruined them with "sticks," or a seasoning of rosemary. That night I went to sleep in the tent by 8pm, trying to drown out the misery of constant cold, hunger, and sore muscles.

I look back on all of this now, nearly ten years later, with amusement because I am such a different person for having had this experience. Over time I've come to love pushing my body to new challenges, and cooking tasty delights like quinoa and yams on the trail. Having collected gear over the years to match my body, like a women's REI excursion pack and self-venting rain gear, I've come to live for these ventures into the woods. But my love affair with the outdoors would take some time to develop, and was still in a sad state by the next morning of our hike.

By the end of day two I was bored playing cards and ready to move on. By day four my body was gaining a rhythm with the trail, and even with my pack, which was also growing lighter. I felt strangely proud of my aches and bruises. We ended the trail on day five with a high awareness of bears, making lots of noise as we came to a creek crossing with salmon guts strewn all over the banks. On the drive home we noted the thirty minute gap on the highway between the start and end of the trail, overwhelming me with pride for what we'd accomplished. I looked into the mountain valley from the road amazed that we had wandered "that far" from civilization and survived.

On the way back to Anchorage we stopped at a lodge where I stuffed myself with a bacon burger, ice cream, and exorbitant amounts of Dr. Pepper. When we arrived home and I walked through the front door, my older brothers looked up curiously from the couch, happy to see we'd survived and interested to hear how we'd faired. I was proud that I could stand on my own two feet next to them and share their experiences in the woods. Of course, when we got off the trail I said to myself it was fun but that I'd probably never put myself through something like that again.

Little did I know..... The trail has a hard time letting you go.