Notes Along the Way - Week 15
I make life too complicated.
It's nice to simplify.
We are strong.
Avery and I came back from the Smoky Mountains with a clear mind, a sense of accomplishment, and tired legs. There's a kind of quiet clarity that only arrives when you've been out in the woods long enough for your brain to stop its usual noise. I keep coming back to those three things.
I make life too complicated.
There is something almost embarrassing about how much mental real estate I give to things that haven't happened yet. The constructed future. The imagined barriers. The low hum of worrying and second-guessing that runs underneath everything, even on good days.
Out on the trail, that noise faded. The present kept demanding my attention — a root to step over, water somewhere below the ridge, so many varieties of wildflowers to notice, Aver just ahead of me on the switchback, her pack swaying slightly with each step.
We didn't have the kind of deep conversations we had on our practice hikes. We didn't need to. There was a companionship in the silence that felt more honest than a lot of words. And the best of all was the laughs we shared — the familiar, whole-body laughter, often over something incredibly small, the kind you only have with your best friend.
It's nice to simplify.
Everything I needed for four days fit on my back. Heavy in one sense; weightless in another.
The day had a shape that made sense: wake up, eat, hike, set up camp, eat again, read a little, sleep. That's it. That's the whole thing.
So much of my daily fatigue comes not from what I'm actually doing but from the mental complexity I unknowingly add — the logistics, the decisions, the tabs left open. The mountains closed all of them. I want to remember that feeling the next time I'm tempted to add one more thing to the pile.
We are strong.
Avery and I were the only women and probably the least seasoned in our group. Several of the guys have done many such trips; one had army special forces training, another was a new cadet. These were not people who were going to slow down for us.
We didn't need them to.
We kept pace, carried our weight. And when it came time to push for the summit of Mount Guyot — when a few people were wavering — it was Avery who pushed the group forward up an unmarked, little-used trail.
She's 18. She has never once made me doubt she's going to be fine in this world. But watching her that day, I felt it differently — not as a mother's hope but as a plainly observable fact. She is capable and bold and doesn't make herself smaller to make others comfortable. I want to be more like this.
We're home now. I know the mental clutter will return — it always does. But maybe a little slower this time. The mountains have a way of recalibrating things, and I'm grateful.
I should go backpacking more often. Maybe Avery will continue to come with me sometimes.
