i can do hard things

On the morning of September 21st, 2020, I walked into the woods for the first time on my own. It was the one-year anniversary of my grandfathers passing, and I had decided to carry my 65L Osprey bag for 32km along the Western Uplands Trail in Algonquin Provincial Park over the course of three days and two nights. I had just come back from hiking along the Bruce Peninsula with a friend who had recently started solo backcountry hiking, and encouraged me to try it for myself. I was terrified. But I wasn’t going to let my fear stop me.

“I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life, and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do…” - Georgia O’Keefe

These are the words I kept repeating to myself, over and over and over again throughout the August long weekend as I set off on my second ever solo backcountry hiking trip, this time for 50km along the Elk River Trail in Strathcona Provincial Park. This past spring, a woman and her dog had been hiking along the trail when a cougar attacked her dog, and when she tried to save her dog’s life, the cougar attacked her. They both survived. I’m not sure what became of the cougar. But when I learned of the attack in a Facebook group a couple of days later, I questioned my trip. I been slowly researching and preparing all winter for the hike. After taking some time to reflect and think, I decided to go anyways. My trip wasn’t until August, and if a cougar was going to attack again, it could be anyone, solo or not. I was terrified once more. But I wasn’t going to let my fear stop me.

On the evening of Thursday August 1st, I packed up my things into my new 65L Gregory bag I affectionally named “Belly” and tucked into bed to get as much sleep as I could amidst the nervousness and excitement of the next day’s travels and adventure.

By the time I left for the Elk River Trailhead the next morning, it was already 11:00 am and the air was hot with the last of the Vancouver Island heatwave rolling through South Island. The temperature on the dash of my rental car read 30°C as I blasted the A/C in preparation for the long drive ahead of me. The morning hadn’t exactly gone as planned. I had hoped to be on the road between 8:30 and 9:00 am, but the universe had other plans. After a bit of a wild goose chase to find a final piece of gear, a Garmin InReach, that I had rented from a man I had never met before, I was finally making my way over the Malahat and cruising past traffic thanks to Google’s directions.

One podcast episode, a call with my parents, and many tunes later, I arrived at the trailhead at 4pm just in time to take the final parking spot. The maps and blogs that I had read told me I had a 7km hike to Camp 1, Butterwort Campground, so I knew I would have to hike semi-quickly to get there with daylight still left to set up my camp and make dinner. I strapped on my backpack, tucked my bear spray into my side pocket where it was easily accessible, locked my car, and walked over to the start of the trail. As it so happened, there was a couple and their friend with their four lively daughters who had arrived before me in the parking lot and was hiking to the same campground as me that evening. Before I left, I asked them if they would take a photo of me, and as we got to chatting, realized we were heading to the same place. My nervousness melted away as I started my hike out ahead of them, and one of the daughters yelled up to me, “Don’t worry Micaela, you won’t be hiking alone. We’re right behind you.”

The forest is a lot less scary than my mind would like me to believe. As soon as I settled into the weight of my pack on my hips and the burning sensation in my thighs, my nervous system completely settled. I knew I was safe. There was nothing that could hurt me that I didn’t not trust myself enough to be able to figure out. Everything was golden and beautiful as the sun shone the last of its rays through the massive old-growth trees dripping in moss and lichen. The sound of the rushing water over the rocks in the river urged me on.

I was scatting and “do-do-do-ing” my way down a rocky path as the tops of tent flys came into view. I had made it to Butterwort Campground. There was debate later that evening when I ran into one of the mothers that I had met in the parking lot before starting the trail if it was 7km or 10 that we had all hiked to get there. However long it was, I was just happy to have arrived safely without any wildlife encounters. I set up my tent. Boiled water for my gluten-free mac and cheese, and dipped my bones into the ice-cold river before cozying-up in my sleeping bag with my book and headlamp. I felt so happy, content, and free as I fell asleep buzzing with anticipation for the following day’s big hike.

Regardless of how great my sleep setup is, I never seem to sleep very well in the backcountry. Maybe it’s because my sleep setup isn’t as great as I think it is, or maybe it’s fear of wildlife, or maybe it’s just that I want to be awake to experience the beauty of the backcountry, and so I’m restless while trying to sleep. Whatever the reason, I woke up on Saturday morning feeling tired and groggy. With a bowl full of oatmeal and dates, and a warm mug of hot chocolate, I willed myself to wake up so that I could face the day ahead of me.

Walking solo in the backcountry is 95% “Wow this is incredible look at me go I’m really doing it” and 5% “What was that noise? Is that a shadow of a cougar in the bushes? What about under that rock cave? Do I hear something behind me?” It’s 50% endurance and strength, and 50% mindfulness and meditation to keep going when the uphills get steeper and the ability to scan your environment for every last little shadow and sound decreases. That’s not how I wanted to approach my hike though anyways. As I clipped on my daypack and secured my bear spray to my side body once again, I reminded myself that anything that could come at me, I could handle; cougars, steep incline, sun, heat, sweat. “I can do hard things” channelling the one and only Glennon Doyle, and the Georgia O’Keefe quote, “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life, and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do…” were the words I kept repeating in my head. Pulling on everything that I have learned so far from my meditation practice, I reminded myself to be present, because this experience, however terrifying, only happens once. “Life is short. Live it now.”

After a relatively easy section of trail through the forest and over a couple of waterfalls, the forested trail disappeared and gave way to mountains in all directions. The last section of the trail followed the river rushing down from Landslide Lake as its source. Tiny alpine trees started popping up everywhere. The peaks of the mountains were beckoning me onward. I was filled with awe, excitement, and gratitude for the blessings of my life that allowed me the ability to hike this far and go on these beautiful adventures.

Landslide Lake! Woah. There are few words that describe the majesty of this place, but I will endeavour to try. Picture green-blue coloured water and the sharp white of the glacier reflecting off of the dark grey colour of the towering mountain peaks. I stripped out of my sweaty hiking clothes and jumped right into the water the second I arrived. I had dreamed about swimming in an alpine lake all summer, and just like that, it was happening, and I was there, experiencing the beauty and the magic of it all.

Following my lunch of peanut butter and banana sandwiches, trail mix, and half-melted chocolate, I changed back into my sweaty clothes and began the 2km hike up to Iceberg Lake, the glacier lake just above Landslide. I wanted to be amazed by the brightness of the blue water. I wanted to swim and feel my skin tingle from the cold. I wanted to be as high as I could go on the mountain, and look up at the rocks and snow, dreaming of one day, going even higher.

All of it came true and more. With my new friend and fellow solo female hiker beside me, we pushed our way through the rest of the steep rocky terrain to reach the summit as the blue water came into sight. As she sat down to indulge in some well-earned lunch, I hopped into my bathing suit once more and headed for the ice blue water. I don’t know how long I was in the water for before my new friend started exclaiming with surprise, “How are you still in the water? How are you still swimming?” All I know is that I could have stayed swimming in that water for a very long time, full of pure and raw awe and gratitude for the beauty of that moment and the beauty of that place.

We hiked the 12km back to Butterwort Campground together, chatting with lengthy periods of silence in between, as I, and I imagine she was as well, reflecting back on the day’s activities, and what we had both just witnessed, and thinking ahead to my dinner waiting for me back at camp. There was still plenty of daylight left in the sky as I hugged my new friend goodbye, wished her safe travels on the rest of her hike out, and prepared my hot water for my dehydrated Mexican rice, beef, and beans bowl that I had been dreaming of since kilometre 10. My final night on the trail went by quickly. After dishes, a second river bath, and filtering plenty of more water, I was exhausted and climbed into my sleeping bag at dusk. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was sound asleep, and woke up the next morning feeling more rested than I have felt in a long time.

I started the final hike out on Sunday morning when the trail was still dark. Morning light had yet to spill through the trees of the tall mountains on either side of me, and so I made myself known through lots of noise, sounds, and singing when I came across hidden bends in the trail. I’ll never forget the moment when the sun first spilled through the trees that morning. It was like all of a sudden, someone had turned the light on. As the sun rose over the mountains and lit up the valley below, the forest was streaming with sunshine and brightness. The sun was dancing through the moss as I continued on.

I took many moments that morning to pause and soak up my final few kilometres on the trail. I had done what I had set out to do in accomplishing my swim in Iceberg Lake, but even more than that, I had shown myself that in the midst of whatever stress I was leaving behind in the city, the threat of cougars, the hot sun, or the fear of hiking alone, I can carry on. I can do hard things. When my mind is set on accomplishing something, there is no stopping me. I can and I will accomplish my dreams.

With tears in my eyes, I walked back into the parking lot filled with joy, gratitude, pride, and relief over completing the hike and arriving back safely. I called my parents with a huge smile on my face as soon as I got back to service, munched down on some chicken nuggets and fries, and queued up another podcast episode and many more tunes for the 3 and a half hour drive ahead of me.

I set out into the woods that Friday afternoon thinking that I was heading into a weekend of pure alone time. What I didn’t know is that I would meet the most kind, welcoming, joyful, lovely, and adventurous people while hiking. So even though they’ll probably never read this, this blog post is dedicated to them. Thank you.

And, I was seeking silence too. The kind of silence that I can only experience when I am on my own. The kind of silence that requires you to listen. The kind of silence that allows you to get closer to your soul. It’s in those deeply silent moments that I can hear myself the most clearly. The kind of moments that open up my mind, settle my body, and allow me to rest fully in peace and freedom.

To this beautiful and life-changing trip, and many, many more yet to come.

All for now,

All my love,

Onward.

-m