Taking up space means that you have the power of choice. You get to choose who to love, what to eat, what to buy, how you behave, how to spend your time, how to think and where to hike. On the surface, all these things are obvious. They are a given. However, as a Black woman, I was overburdened from birth with instructions about the appropriate way to exist.
I grew up in Florida, raised by a single father of four. I wasn’t introduced to the outdoors beyond the confines of our neighborhood playground—better described as a small graveyard devoid of playground equipment, let alone space for exploration. I had no nature-based experiences. My classmates shared stories of camping trips, visits to national parks and other journeys in the outdoors. Those classmates were white. I hadn’t heard stories of Black outdoorsmen and my family couldn’t afford those excursions. The underlying message was it wasn’t for Black people. It wasn’t for me.
In the winter of 2008, I attended an outdoor retreat for women survivors of sexual assault—an expedition I shared with six others, plus two field guides. The retreat provided challenging, structured activities, one of which was rock climbing. We belayed one another as we took turns scaling the rocks. It was my first time camping, the first time I’d slept in the woods, and I didn’t know that people went rock climbing for fun. I personally prefer to stay on the ground.
At the time, I weighed 375 pounds. The traditional safety equipment did not fit me. The field guide assisted me in tying knots to make a safety net of sorts. Wearing a makeshift harness, I scaled the side of the mountain. It took a lot of courage to reach the top, but once there, I fell in love. I gazed out over the jagged peaks with a sense of awe. It was clear in the mountains; waves of snow whizzed down the sides, crumpling at the base. The peaks stood tall, kissing the sky. There, in and with Nature, I found my strength. I climbed a mountain and discovered fearlessness.
Shortly after that trip, without provocation, I started to experience visual disturbances accompanied by headaches and migraines that could not be treated with over-the-counter medication. I attributed the problems to needing a new pair of glasses. I scheduled an appointment with an optometrist who transferred me to the hospital. A neuro-ophthalmologist diagnosed the brain disease pseudotumor cerebri. There is no known cause or cure. With pseudotumor cerebri, my body thinks and acts like I have a brain tumor even though I don’t. However, there is an increase in intracranial pressure, which causes swelling of the optic nerve.
In my case, a shunt was installed in an effort to improve my eyesight and reduce headaches. Months later, I learned that the shunt had malfunctioned, and I needed another surgery. I would have several more shunt surgeries over the span of a decade. Having this disease was a traumatic experience; the repercussions will likely last my lifetime. I spent a lot of years sedentary as my attempts to be physically active caused excruciating pain. Doctors told me that I was going to have to live with severe pain and be on medication for the rest of my life. More people telling me how I should exist.
Over time, realizing that I would be in pain regardless of what I did, I chose to be active. I spent time outdoors, participating in activities that involved exploration and inner strength, which, it turns out, I yearned for. One afternoon while walking with a friend in a nature preserve tucked away in a hidden crevice of Atlanta, we followed the trail down to a quiet stream. As I looked downstream, I noticed plants growing at the base of a large oak. Moving closer, I could see that the tree roots were working hard to hold the rocks and dirt in place. I knelt and hugged the tree. Intuitively I understood that in many ways, I was like a tree. My feet, like roots, firmly planted on the ground. My arms like branches and my fingers, leaves. Embracing that oak, I knew that Nature made up all of me.
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
That was the day I decided I belonged in the outdoors. At that moment, I was sure of two things: from a geological perspective, the bulk of trees and mountains in the U.S. are in the West; and in pioneer days, people migrated to the West for opportunities. Eventually, I would head there as well to hike the 2,650-mile Pacific Crest Trail. I did this in order to challenge myself, reclaim the body that had betrayed me, and reconnect with the universe.
In silence and security, I have grown to love the way trees celebrate changing seasons. Standing as symbols of life’s evolving Nature, they bend and change shape and color as the seasons progress, yet they stand steadfastly safe and secure. They express Nature’s eternal life. Flora and fauna were plentiful along the PCT. The characteristics of each are as unique and pristinely bound to the geology as the mountains themselves. On the 7,124-foot summit of Pacifico Mountain, I stood in awe, peering out over the Mojave Desert on the north-facing slope of the San Gabriel range. Reflecting on my reasoning for my PCT trek, I thought of how I could gain a deeper, fuller understanding of who I was by reconnecting to Nature.
The desert’s various hues were a reflection of my shades, replicas of my skin. In Nature, I am a much healthier and more creative person. I believe that when we are out in Nature, our perspectives shift. We see shades and hues and rainbows and realize that the parts of ourselves that we judge—ever so harshly—may be understandable, even acceptable. Yes, the concept of Nature should be accessible for all, and while the notion that everyone can go to a trail is admirable, it’s far from reality for a lot of people. More precisely, the various intersections of my identity–Black, female, lesbian and a person with a disability, were barriers to the outdoors, or so I was told.
As a Black person who grew up in predominantly white classrooms, I was taught a version of history that negated my ancestors’ existence before slavery. I learned about the splintered achievements of the environmentalist John Muir, who held deeply racist beliefs—the ideologies that formed the basis of the exclusionary outdoors, Nature.
One uncontested theme of 2020 is “I Can’t Breathe,” whose intro, verse, chorus and bridge quickly became the lyrical mantra chanted not only in the U.S. but all over the world. After the death of George Floyd, a Black man slain by Minneapolis police officers, unrest convulsively fanned the U.S. This killing reflected long-standing disparities and inequalities faced by Blacks. Sadly, these deaths continue to send a message that Black Lives don’t matter.
So many Blacks have come to believe that we are the problem and that there is something wrong with us. The indisposition of Blackness can be stifling. To find wellness and restoration, we need to be soothed and nurtured. We can find that solace in Nature. I’m a firm believer that Nature doesn’t discriminate. In fact, I believe she is the ultimate healer. As a lover of Nature and an advocate for both environmental and social justice, on July 4, 2020, I began a 310-mile thru-hike along the Superior Hiking Trail in Minnesota. My goal was to take up space—to assert my right to be in that space.
The moment I stepped foot on the blue blaze that marks the trail, my mind began to explore the depths of the various hues of blues that I’ve encountered throughout my travels in Nature—peacocks, hydrangeas, moor frogs, sometimes the sky and sometimes the ocean. As quickly as I ruminated on the beauty of the color blue, my thoughts were disrupted by the images of the “boys in blue.” Police officers are sworn to protect and serve. Just as the thought entered, I tripped over my feet. Quickly catching my balance, a blue jay flew overhead. Each time my mind wandered off to the negativity surrounding the killing of George Floyd or the countless incidents of violence inflicted upon Black bodies, a blue jay or its feather would find me.
Blue jays were very abundant and there were many connections between the bird that would become my guardian, my situation and the events that lead to my hike. The bird, a symbol of protection and fearlessness, became an iconic reminder that I was safe.
Near daily, I woke to a tent soaked with condensation. The inability to keep my socks dry made for lyrical rants using words I won’t go on record saying here. After a few nights on the trail, I awakened to the sound of my tent flapping in the wind. I listened as rain rhythmically drummed on my tent. From the comforting warmth of my sleeping bag, I came to realize that I had to accept what I was going through. Not just the wetness of the trail, but all things, and trust that Nature would only give me what I needed when I needed it and what I could handle.
In the morning, I ate breakfast, seated next to my saturated tent. Overhead a blue jay circled and sang. The sun came out and stayed for a while. I completed the 310-mile hike in 24 days. It rained at some point on 21 of those days. Each day I discovered something new, both on trail and about myself. I witnessed the transformation of trees and colors as I traveled northward over the month.
Despite the grief and trauma—all the negative that has taken place and continues to take place—I’ve come to understand that what we need is peace. Nature continuously nurtures the spirit. She inspires and is a constant reminder that good things come when they come from a place of peace. But no matter how healing a brook, mountain ridge, or estuary may be, those spaces are for the privileged. As I’ve stated, they are not accessible to everyone.
Historically, Nature hasn’t been a safe place for BIPOC (Black indigenous people of color). BIPOC need to see themselves represented in Nature and understand that they have an inherent right to that connection. When we recognize ourselves as allies and co-creators with the earth and the natural world, our relationship to the environment can change, and healing can begin. We can take up space.
This will require a complete paradigm shift for backpackers and nature conservationists, as well as anyone who works with the general public in relation to the outdoors. Everyone deserves to have their own outdoor experiences. I ask you to consider how we, as a community of people passionate about the outdoors, can make this happen.
Reflecting on the ways Nature has allowed me to reconnect, create and grow, I have come to understand that to fully thrive, we need to take care of our roots and our ties to one another.
This summer, I plan to hike the John Muir Trail section of the PCT—the name, views, and beliefs synonymous with a racist. But despite his namesake amongst the various flora and fauna and High Sierra peaks, I will find the love that connects and accepts and will allow humanity to live and thrive. I hope that in hiking the JMT, I will encourage other BIPOC, young and old, and people like myself with intersecting identities to explore, reclaim, reconnect, restore and take up space in the vastness of Nature, in the middle of nowhere.
The Florida Trail is one of the eleven National Scenic Trails in the US. It stretches 1,500 miles from Big Cypress National Preserve to Fort Pickens at Gulf Islands National Seashore, Pensacola Beach.
As a Florida native, I want to bring Footprints for Change to the Sunshine State by thru-hiking the Florida Trail for its 40th anniversary. I aim to be the first neurological implant recipient to thru-hike the Florida Trail and the first known Black female to complete the trail end to end.
As an advocate for a better planet led by love and compassion, we can equip ourselves with a powerful tool of understanding through conversation. I hope sharing my experiences will educate those with little to no idea of the challenges of being a hiker living with a disability. In writing, I also hope to reduce the stigma surrounding individuals living with disabilities.
I am an environmental and social justice advocate, a writer, a hiker, and a person living with a disability. Utilizing my intersecting identities: Black, disabled, lesbian, and backpacker, I’m on a mission to get historically excluded folks outdoors in Nature.
One might classify me as a semi-professional backpacker, and my accomplishments are well documented. However, as an individual with invisible illnesses, some may not know the roads I’ve traveled to get here.
I am living with bipolar – a disorder associated with severe mood swings ranging from manic highs to depressive lows. I also live with Intracranial Hypertension (IH) – a rare brain disease causing my body to think and act like I have a brain tumor – yet, I don’t. For the latter, I have an implanted neurological device to control the negative side effects that stem from IH.
A selfie of Crystal in her backpacking gear at the left corner of the image with desert flora, including yellow flowers and prickly pear cactus, with distant mountains behind her.
Over the past decade and a half, only my closest friends and family truly understand my struggles. IH made me sick all the time. Days were spent trying not to fall while struggling to stand. For years, I wished the room would stop spinning long enough to make a meal – and once complete, I hoped I kept the meal down. I suffered from debilitating migraines and lost complete vision in one eye. I endured multiple invasive surgeries, many of which were brain surgeries, to help alleviate and control the symptoms of IH.
I lived with the symptoms of IH for the greater part of my adulthood. During that period, I had no interest or desire to do anything. I was depressed, heavily medicated, and experienced significant physical changes. I slept all the time because everything I did hurt. I worried constantly and was filled with anxiety. My outlook was pessimistic and bleak.
I was tired of the pain and lost the desire to fight. I finally moved back with my parents during one of my darkest moments. I was blessed to have the support of my family. Especially my Dad, who every morning made me repeat the mantra: “I can. I must. I will.”
Then, he would drive me a little over a mile up the road to the gate entrance of our subdivision, leaving me to walk back home. I was barely able to walk a block without rest. I would have laughed if someone told me then that someday I would enjoy walking miles on end. But I found something to keep me coming back.
I’d use a little park at the halfway point between the gate and home as a resting place. I didn’t realize it then, but being outside in that park was healing. In little time, I began carrying a backpack on the walks. Inside were writing aids and usually a book to read. I started looking forward to those daily walks, especially the time I spent in the park.
I finally accepted that I would be in pain no matter what I did and recognized that I wanted to live a full life. Walking and being outdoors brought a sense of joy. I even craved spending time outdoors and walking. Which, in short, led me to run and, ultimately, my decision to become a backpacker.
Crystal, wearing a button down with a green and white plaid pattern and grey pants, is leaning up against a stone placard for the Arizona Trail with a gravel trail, desert flora and red, rocky hills in the background.
Now, most days, I’m filled with unbelievable joy to be alive. That doesn’t mean I’m cured or that I’ll feel as fabulous tomorrow. I still have IH, and I’m still living with a mental health condition. Many things could change tomorrow, but Nature has taught me to embrace today. Hiking and spending time outdoors have positively impacted me. I think about how much better all our lives would be if we all took our cues from Nature to accept everyone and love unconditionally.
Spending time outdoors can be wonderful in many ways. The solace, the stillness, the trees, and the fresh air are a few things I enjoy about being outdoors. I think we all want positive experiences —and to get through adversity— in solidarity with like-minded folks. I find these connections outdoors.
I believe in creating inclusive, empowering outdoor experiences for all. I’m aware of the importance of visibility – growing up, I didn’t think the outdoors was for people like me. I was never exposed to Nature-based activities and never saw myself reflected in the outdoors. So, I set out on a campaign, Footprints for Change, to hike the Great Western Loop (GWL).
The GWL is a 6,875-mile-long footpath that links together the Pacific Crest Trail, Pacific Northwest Trail, Continental Divide Trail, Grand Enchantment Trail, and Arizona Trail — and a trail-less segment through the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts.
I began the three-part journey in 2021 on the PCT, hiking a little over 1,100 miles. I became the first person with a neuromodulator to climb Mt. Whitney, the largest mountain in the contiguous US. Unlike other hikers, I have to stop every ten days to recharge my neurological implant batteries. Because of this and other health and safety-related concerns, I creatively covered the 675-mile segmented trail as a car camping road trip.
Crystal, wearing a black beanie and green puffy coat, is standing atop large pale boulders with a sky streaked with yellow and orange in the background. She is holding a metal laser cut sign that reads Mt. Whitney, 14,505 and has cut outs of trees, mountains and a bear below the words and numbers.
This season I hiked 2,384 miles, including 400 miles on the AZT, completing a calendar year thru-hike of the 800-mile scenic trail. I have plans to rejoin the loop in 2023.
One reason I decided on such a huge undertaking is to advocate for more diversity in the outdoors, representing women, BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color), the LGBTQIA + community, and people living with disabilities.
I believe that Nature is a unifier; through her, we can build an equitable existence for all folks to thrive. When we can be our authentic selves, we feel more connected. I can work to make the outdoors a safe place for all creatures. I must actively engage others to join me. In solidarity with others, I will pave a path for folks with my various intersecting identities to have a reciprocal relationship with Nature and others. Through this relationship, we can work to heal humanity and save our dying planet. I will continue to do my part. I can. I must. I will.
I have never been one to strive for recognition or praise. Especially when it comes to engaging with Nature. However, as I mature, I understand that sharing my achievements means putting something out into the world and having that echo come back to me. Putting my achievements on display drives a more profound desire to inspire others to follow. In many cases, I am the first to achieve these feats, and it’s my hope that I won’t be the last.
The Superior Hiking Trail (SHT) is a 310-mile footpath that follows the rocky ridgeline above Lake Superior from the Wisconsin-Minnesota border to the Canadian border. On Saturday, July 4th, 2020, at 8:46 a.m. I began hiking the SHT in honor of George Floyd, a Black man murdered by a Minneapolis police officer. Twenty-four days later, I officially became the first neuromodulator implant recipient to complete a total thru-hike of the SHT End 2 Ender.
The John Muir Trail(JMT) is a 210-mile trail in the Sierra Nevada mountains that extends from Yosemite to Mt. Whitney — the tallest peak in the lower 48 states passing through Yosemite, Kings Canyon, and Sequoia National Parks. During her epic journey, I became the first neurological implant recipient to climb Mt. Whitney and the first to complete the JMT.
The Arizona Trail (AZT) is an 800-mile trail that crosses Arizona from Utah to Mexico. I completed the AZT as a calendar year thru-hike (started in August 2021 and ended in April 2022). In 2021, I became the first neurological implant recipient to complete the Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim Hike with an overnight at Phantom Ranch and the first to complete the AZT.
The Great Western Loop (GWL) is a 6,875-mile hike through five National Scenic Trails in the Western United States, 12 National Parks, and over 75 wilderness areas. Because it’s a loop, the direction of travel is a hiker’s choice.
Section 1 Pacific Crest Trail (PCT): The PCT is a 2,650-mile trail from Mexico to Canada through California, Oregon, and Washington. 2,180 miles make up the GWL.I have opted to complete the PCT as part of the GWL.
On July 28, 2021, I began in Truckee, California, and headed southbound. During this time, I completed the 210-mile John Muir Trail. I became the first neurological implant recipient to climb Mt. Whitney before ending my journey at Grand Army Pass due to California closures of the National Parks and Forest Service.
Next on the GWL is a 900 miles section known as a Choose Your Own Adventure across the Mojave and Sonoran deserts. Ending the PCT earlier than expected put me in this region sooner than anticipated, leaving me at extreme health risks and possible weather-related fatalities.
Here’s where some die-hard hiking purists would argue that I am not entitled to count this section. But I’m not on a mission to conquer Nature, so I rented a car. YES, I rented a car. I completed these sections as night hikes (it was too hot to hike during the day).
Some folks believe that Black folks are afraid to hike at night. I imagine those are the same folks that think Black folks don’t hike in general. Black folks hike, and I, like many others, are not afraid of the dark – nor were my ancestors. I invite you to familiarize yourself with the original thru-hiker, Harriet Tubman.
Utilizing a car – allowed me to complete this section within a week, allowing me time to explore. I camped in Death Valley, National Park. I traveled to Great Basin National Park and spent time amongst the Bristlecone Pines, the oldest non-clonal species on the planet, and I climbed Wheeler Peak.
I also visited Bryce Canyon, Zion National Park, Antelope Canyon, and Horseshoe Bend before returning the car to Page, Arizona. I met a trail angel who dropped me off at the Northern Terminus of the Arizona Trail in Knabb, Utah.
Section 2 The Arizona Trail (AZT): The AZT is an 800-mile trail from Utah to Mexico. Only 316 miles of the AZT comprise the GWL, but I wanted to finish the entire trail. I completed the trail as a calendar year thru-hike and became the first neuromodulator implant recipient to hike the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim Hike (with a night at Phantom Ranch).
Section 3 Pacific Northwest Trail (PNT):The PNT is 1,200 miles, with 750 miles making up the GWL.
Section 4 Grand Enchantment Trail (GET): The GET is a 770-mile trail, with 212 miles making up the GWL.
Section 5 Continental Divide Trail (CDT):. The CDT is a 3,100-mile trail, with 2,700 miles on the GWL.
Sadly, I’ve decided to stop pursuing the GWL. Sexism, racism, and homophobia are reportedly frequent occurrences on the CDT, and I will not attempt the trail for my safety and sanity. Thus, I will not finish the GWL. Stay tuned for upcoming announcements about the 2023 Footprints for Change season.
I am section hiking The Great Western Loop (GWL), a 6,875-mile hike through five National Scenic Trails in the Western United States. One of those trails is the Arizona National Scenic Trail (AZT). The AZT is a total of 800 miles, but only 320 miles of those miles are part of the GWL. Despite that, I decided to complete the entire AZT for a finisher’s belt buckle. I completed a calendar year thru-hike (which I learned was a term) for that belt bucket. That’s not a joke. I am highly motivated by medals.
For me, the 2022 hiking season was a testament to perseverance marked by many bright cloudless days, downpours, challenges, and difficulties. Whoever said thru-hiking is easy likely doesn’t understand the definition of easy. I started my trek heading southbound (SOBO) on the Arizona Trail, picking up in Pine, AZ, where I ended my hike in 2021.
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
Some think Arizona is one big desert. Images of dunes, tumbleweed adrift, and saguaro cacti commonly come to mind. Yet, the AZT offers those features haphazardly while also displaying plateaus, mountains, rocks, snow – yes, snow -spiky plants, lakes, rivers, wind, cows, wild horses, snakes, and javelins. The latter was my favorite discovery.
The AZT’s diversity in climate, flora, fauna, and creatures change with each mile. As such, navigation was baffling at times. Nevertheless, I maneuvered through the solitude of rolling highlands, comforted by visions of the AZT finishers’ buckle. As a SOBO hiker, I didn’t have the luxury of hiking with a partner and only met folks in passing. Though lonely, I sometimes considered this aspect of my journey the norm. I met many NOBO hikers throughout the day and could hear more hiking by my tent during the night. I connected profoundly with a hiker who recently visited my Minnesota home.
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
The AZT was not without long water carries, or longer road walks without views. Personally, the AZT doesn’t rank high on my list of favorite trails. Though aspects were amazing, like the Grand Canyon and Miller Peak, it’s not a trail I would readily do again. Generally speaking, I’m not an advocate for completing the same trail more than once. But in full transparency, even if I were, I don’t think I’d ever set foot back on the AZT.
On my final day, helicopters flew overhead as I ascended the 9,465 feet to Miller peak (the second-highest point on the AZT). The desert view from the summit was breathtaking. But I felt sadness when I realized the reason for the helicopter. I was crossing the border on April 1, 2022, when I met a young ex-pat hiding from border patrol the day before. My triumph was celebrated by border patrol while she and her family hid in the periphery to evade capture and deportation. I believe that is something for all outdoor lovers to ponder. How can we make the outdoors accessible, fun, and safe for everyone, especially when Nature has been a place of harm?
Northern terminus: Utah border at Stateline Campground
Southern terminus: Mexico border at Coronado National Monument
Challenges: Long water carries, long road walks without views
Highlights: The Grand Canyon
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
Photos provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
From the AZT, I took a train to the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). I love traveling via Amtrak. Perhaps because I was a smelly hiker, was a handful of stops away from my destination, or maybe the conductor was in a giving mood – either way, I was upgraded to a sleeper car—a highlight of my journey for sure.
I hoped to start the PCT where I finished last season in Kennedy Meadows South, and head northbound (NOBO). However, it was April, and there was a lot of snow and no other hikers. Against my principles, for mental health and safety reasons, I backtracked, redoing sections of the PCT that I’d already completed, and joined the PCT Class of 2022 in Big Bear, CA.
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
As far as FarOut goes, it was humorous being one of the last people to post the previous season, reading the comments I left for would-be 2021 SOBO hikers as a current NOBO hiker in 2022. A large portion of the PCT closed the previous year due to wildfires. Nevertheless, my time on the PCT 2022 was filled with wonderful memories. Martha, the lead staff at Hiker Town, nursed me back to health following a bout with norovirus. Kim and Harry camped beside me for two nights, sharing dinner and stories. Anne, the park service worker who fixed the hole in my sleeping bag, transported me around a previously hiked section weeks later. I did some yo-yoing to make a book reading. Some of the folks I met in town restored my faith in humanity. Others, like the two that called the cops on me, were reminders of what’s wrong with our planet.
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
Photo provided by Crystal Gail Welcome
I hiked 160 days, five long months, crossing the California-Oregon border. I made my way to Elk Lodge near Bend, Oregon. I’d been in pain for nearly 100 miles at that point and could no longer withstand hiking. In what was first believed to be a freak splinter accident, I was scheduled for surgery. Two lovely trail angels, Liz and Tom, housed me for over a week while I waited for surgery. Surgery revealed osteophytes due to long-term repetitive impact. My body needed rest, and as I write this, I continue to rest. At 2,384 miles, 2022 has been my longest hiking season to date. While I am sketching plans for the 2023 season, one thing I know for certain is I’m not hiking a trail without a map and compass in addition to the FarOut app. Without either, I’d likely be living out in the Arizona wilderness amongst the wild horses, cows and javelinas.
The Arizona National Scenic Trail (AZT) is a non-motorized trail, traversing 800 miles across Arizona from the Arizona-Utah border
in Kaibab Plateau in Utah southbound thru Arizona to Monument 102 on the U.S./Mexico border. The AZT connects three national parks, two national monuments, five national forests, and Oracle Arizona State Park, encapsulating Arizona’s varied beauty. According to the Arizona Trail Association, over a hundred hikers each season set out to complete an end-to-end hike.
Section One: The First 400 miles
In September of 2021, I completed the first 400 miles of the AZT (southbound). I enjoyed the AZT in the fall and became the first neuromodulator recipient to complete the Grand Canyon Rim to Rim with an overnight at Phantom Ranch (the bottom of the Grand Canyon). Due to medical reasons combined with an ill-fitting backpack that caused cuts and abrasions on top of my neurological implant batteries, I ended the trip shy of 400 miles.
Section Two: The Last 400 miles
Fun fact, upon completion of the AZT, finishers are awarded a copper-plated, handmade belt buckle. In the spring of 2022, I set out to complete the remaining miles of the AZT. No lie, though I completed the miles of the GWL on the AZT, I wanted to finish for the belt buckle. Finishers also become the proud holders of a completion sticker. I have completed various races, including four half-marathons, for medals.
But in all seriousness, when I set out to complete something, I do it! Even though it makes me a long-ass section hiker versus a thru-hiker. I want to go on record here: completing a hiking/backpacking goal that you set out for yourself over time does not make you any less of a hiker. In the case of the AZT, I hiked the exact 800 miles that a thru-hiker would. In the running world, a 40-minute mile is still a mile. On April 1, 2022 (not an April’s Fool joke), I completed the AZT.
Speaking My Truth
I wasn’t as impressed during my second season on the AZT as the previous season. I found myself in snowy weather conditions right off the bat. From mile to mile, there were huge fluctuations between snow and heat. Though prepared, as a native Floridian, I found the cold extremes off-putting in the otherwise hot and dry climate. Within the first week, I bounced through various weather extremes that made no sense to me. As I made my way southbound, I was often alone for days. I enjoy solitude but quickly realized the importance of human connection, if only in brief greetings from strangers. For the first four days, I didn’t see another person. As someone living with a mental health condition, loneliness set in, and my endurance wavered.
Midway into the second week, I began crossing paths with other people. I was happy for all the brief connections and decided to make each encounter part of a Connection Collage, taking selfies with all the consenting people I encountered (the AZT selfie photos can be located on my Instagram account @footprintsforchange). Subscribe for future photo updates as I will continue this project on future treks.
Nearing the End
Loneliness aside, as I grew closer to the Mexican border, I began running into hikers whose complexion were similar hues of brown to mine. However, their end goal was anywhere in the United States. As I conversed with these travelers (Sí, yo hablo Español) I was engulfed in sadness and discontent. Here I was, hiking leisurely to receive a copper-plated belt buckle (smile). One encounter, in particular, left a disconsolate imprint on my spirit. I discovered a little girl amongst the backdrop of the Arizona landscape. Her stoic innocence masked the desperation and sallowness as I approached.
My first thought was that her traveling companion(s) were detained. My second thought was, what action should I take? I fed and hydrated the young girl and decided to connect with any other adult reflecting the hues of the young girl. I needed to refill my water containers, especially considering I was now carrying water for two. As luck would have it, we arrived at a water trough where a group of folks and the little girl ran up to one of the men, yelling, “papa!” He explained that everyone dispersed when the border patrol came but assured me that her safety was most important, which is why he didn’t chase after her.
I learned later that expat children have the burden of proof. There’s no way to determine if a non-American-born child is not a citizen. I was set to finish the trail the following day and shared my lightweight food with the family. I realize the controversy around expats is a significant issue in the U.S., and aiding these individuals in entering the country is a crime. But allowing folks to starve to death is a greater travesty. As we wished one another safe travels, the young girl’s father reached into his pocket and handed me 20 pesos. He said “eres un ángel”. He explained that it was all his money and would give me more if he could. I was hesitant to take the pesos, but he insisted. I traded him a twenty-dollar bill in exchange.
Lasting Impact
That peso holds a scared spot in not only my heart – it is now a travel bug of sorts tucked away in a safe place as I continue North on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) *side note: I am writing this post as a reflection piece, and as of April 15, I have begun hiking the PCT as a part of the GWL.
The memories of that encounter stuck with me. Upon completing the AZT, a couple of border patrol agents congratulated me on my trek. I thought about my 800-mile journey and how challenging it was at times, yet, those who travel just as far, if not more, aren’t celebrated upon reaching the same border. My sobering completion and immense sadness I felt followed me to the PCT. I am now nearing the halfway point. Consider this a cliffhanger as my journey to connect continues.
Recent awareness of the lack of diversity in the outdoors suggests to many that it is a new issue or was never a problem in the past. Many white Americans have been enjoying the outdoors since the trails we know today were established—even before that.
For those who have been blissfully unaware, the new attention to this issue may seem as if the media created it. Those people often say that “nature isn’t racist,” “the trail is open to all,” and the people there are the “friendliest” group they’ve ever known. But sentiments and statements such as those are evidence that lack of diversity is an issue and one that did not just appear.
With the election of President John F. Kennedy, the 1960s was slated to be the “golden age” of America. But more precisely, this golden age was for white Americans. By the decade’s end, the U.S. was in turmoil and at war with itself.
The 1960s are most noticeably hallmarked by the Civil Rights Movement, the Vietnam War, and the Women’s Rights Movement. On April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., a Black civil rights leader, was assassinated. Five months and 28 days after King’s murder, President Lyndon B. Johnson signed into law the National Trails System Act establishing national recreation, scenic and historic trails. I’m not implying a cause-and-effect relationship; merely stating a fact.
Truthfully, it’s no surprise to me that white Americans eagerly sought enjoyment and respite in the outdoors. Until the passage of the Civil Rights Act in 1964, the National Park Service’s position on segregation was that it would respect local laws. One of the most striking examples of that is Shenandoah National Park.
Shenandoah National Park established Lewis Mountain as a segregated area for African American visitors in the 1930s. (National Park Service photo.)
Even though the 1968 National Trails System Act passed four years after the Civil Rights Act, the outdoors didn’t suddenly become friendly to Blacks. In fact, many Black folks didn’t have the means to engage meaningfully with the outdoors. Whether or not the NTSA was created for this purpose, in essence, it was a way to placate desegregation.
So, while Black folks fought for equality, white folks were making strides to isolate themselves from Blacks. I can’t begin to imagine what my life would be like if I had the privilege of escaping the daily injustices of being Black.
Most National Scenic and Historic Trails are upheld, maintained, and restored by volunteers. These individuals see the natural world’s benefits and hope to maintain it for future generations. Today marks the 53rd anniversary of President Johnson’s signing of the NTSA. However, most Americans still aren’t aware of the existence of the National Trails System, and statistically, those who are knowledgeable are mostly white.
The systems of oppression and disadvantages that excluded BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color) from the outdoors are detrimental to the future of our trails and our planet. As humans, our experience with the land reflects how we treat it; a meaningful connection with Nature instills a desire to protect it and maintain her.
I think about the future of the trails and our Earth. I know I want us to have both—and I want them to thrive. For that to occur, people must work to maintain our trails and protect Nature. This starts with relationships to the Earth and with one another.
Today I invite everyone to start a new relationship with a trail and a human. Walk a trail, attend a trail clean-up, and get to know your neighbor in the process.
Crystal Gail Welcome on the PCT in the Sierra Nevada this summer. Photo by Crystal Gail Welcome.
Fires are ablaze throughout California, wreaking havoc on homes, businesses and wild landscapes. Folks from all walks of life are working endlessly to extinguish the devastating effects of the wildfires amidst a drought and scourging heatwave. I can’t help but empathize with Nature and see how much she is suffering. The majority of trail users are people who can insulate themselves from the everyday reality of environmental injustices—such as these wildfires—and can afford to focus solely on preserving the purity and sanctuary of Nature. I think of you who call California home, like my family out in Oakland, and it saddens me that you can’t just leave and go back to your homes; you’re already home.
I wrestled with these notions crossing Highway 108 at Sonora Pass into the High Sierra. Sauntering southward, I bore witness to the destruction of an earth thirsty for rain, some trees scorched to bare trunks others hollow pits where trees once stood. The lingering decay of soot in the air filled me with grief and an awareness that this destruction is a direct result of humans.
As of this writing, the U.S. Forest Service has closed every forest in California and asked that trail users exit all forest lands immediately. This order is an effort to utilize California resources efficiently and ensure the safety of those of us lucky enough to be here. Forest Service staff have an incredibly important job, and I appreciate the work they do. In my work to make Nature more accessible for BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) and the various intersections of my identities, when it’s all said and done, I want us to have a planet to live on. It got me thinking about my impact and use, and listening to Nature.
Upon exiting the Inyo National Forest, I talked with fellow hikers about the purpose for my hike and what the closures would mean. They expressed concern that I wouldn’t officially complete the Great Western Loop. They explained that in skipping the closed section it wouldn’t be an official thru-hike. I smiled and said “that’s fine by me.” I have come to understand, and I hope that others will too, that this notion of a thru-hiker is unattainable for most. Aside from the costs of gear, food and in-town lodging, there’s the cost of taking time off work. Then, when you add costs associated with bypassing closures, it’s even harder. For a lot of aspiring BIPOC thru-hikers, the additional uncertainties are additional barriers to accessing the outdoors.
During my final week on the PCT where it meets the John Muir Trail, I’ve met white hikers who struggle through injuries in their attempts to complete the trail. One fell over a cliff and another had a broken foot. This willingness to complete at all costs, when most people (primarily those who look like me) will never set foot on this or any trail is not only dangerous but a travesty. This lack of concern for themselves puts Nature at risk as well as the forest and park service employees who may be called to rescue them.
In the spirit of making the outdoors more inclusive and accessible, changing the “you’re not a ‘real’ backpacker unless you are thru-hiking” stigma is a good place to start. We need to eradicate the mindset that once on trail you have to keep pushing through even when it’s dangerous to yourself, others, Nature, or when the Forest Service mandates that you leave.
I am taking cues from Nature as I go along, and seeking a deep understanding of my mission to make the outdoors more inclusive for all—for generations. Maybe she is telling us to give her time to recover and grow. Out of respect for Nature and a desire to give her the time devoid of people that she needs to heal, I am now transitioning eastward toward the Arizona Trail to continue my Footprints for Change Hike of the Great Western Loop.
Nature has gifted me so much during our time together: astonishing sunrises, breathtaking peaks, and magnificent sunsets. Nature has removed all elements of self-doubt, shame, and most of the chaos life brings. I love this about Nature, for this is something she alone can provide.
During my weeks on the PCT, I have encountered folks from all over the world. Travelers from Europe, China, India, Arkansas, and even my hometown of Jacksonville, Florida. Whether they are day hikers, Forest Service employees, thru-hikers, trail crew members, townsfolks, merchants, or individuals who chose to give me a ride to or from town, these people make up my trail experience.
None of my encounters were overtly egregious. Whenever I talk about my reasoning for being on the PCT and my greater aspirations for bringing visibility to the larger trail systems, I’m met with a slew of questions. The number one question I’m asked on the surface is harmless, though packed with privilege: “How can you afford to do this?” This question is only asked by people that don’t look like me. In fact, of all the BIPOC (Black, Indigenous People of Color) I’ve met throughout this journey, the topic has never come up. When I’ve encountered BIPOC, they’ve asked, “How can I support you?” or “Can I send you something?” or “Sista, can I pray for you?”
The second most common question from people who don’t look like me is, “Why do you think Black people aren’t on the trails?” But when asked, it is usually rhetorical. Turning the question around implies that Black people could be out on the trails, but they just don’t want to be. This reframing of the question turns it into a statement, and they get to speak to their awareness of the issue while at the same time indicating their desire to not hear my response or engage in meaningful dialogue. Both these questions by people who don’t look like me show the degree to which white privilege is overtly displayed on the trail and is one of the reasons why I’ve chosen this journey.
In 2016, I hiked 600 miles of the PCT, unsupported and on a very small budget. At times, it was a burden while on trail. I learned from this experience that if someone sets up so many obstacles to prevent you from doing something, it’s worth doing. This time, I funded my hike through service-oriented jobs, and I am unashamed to state that I am currently accepting donations. I worked as a literacy specialist service corps member in rural Minnesota during the era of George Floyd’s murder and nationwide protests over systemic racism. This job may be atypical for those my age, but not those whose social or economic backgrounds match my own.
As an educated Black woman, I faced a great deal of adversity and emotional anguish for my attempts to teach young folks to read. My issues went unaddressed by white supervisors and couldn’t be adequately addressed by my therapist, who was also white. My safe haven has been nature and I retreated to her every opportunity I got. There is an unmatched amount of beauty and joy that comes from a meaningful connection with young people. I wholeheartedly believe a caring adult can positively impact the life of a child. This is one of my goals.
My time as a literacy specialist ended in May 2021, after which I upheld a previous commitment to serve as a co-leader for a BIPOC Youth Conservation Corps crew in the Superior National Forest. The crew included eight refugees, seven from Thailand (incorrectly referred to as Myanmar refugees but were too respectful to correct others. I knew better because I simply asked), and one from Burma. For three weeks we all worked to create and restore recreational opportunities for spaces we don’t visit, for parks we don’t have access to, for communities we don’t live in, and for lands we have no connection with. For three weeks we sweated, cried and even bled on land for the enjoyment of white folks. The white folks involved in the project praised our efforts for the most part. But during our three weeks on the trail, twice we were met with individuals who felt we didn’t belong. We weren’t viewed as stewards of the land, rather creatures who were foreign and shouldn’t be there.
I think of this notion of belonging as I saunter throughout the High Sierra. My crew members in Superior shouldn’t have to justify their right to belong in a space by working there. To go further, migrant farm workers’ experience of the High Sierra shouldn’t just be to labor in the fields. Throughout history, exploration and who belongs in the outdoors has come down to privilege. What right do you have to be here? What’s the price? What’s your currency? I believe that in changing the narrative of the outdoors, it starts with changing our narratives and how we engage with folks who are different.
I recently read an article about someone setting the record for the fastest known time to complete the PCT. After knowing the work that goes into maintaining a trail and knowing the “costs” associated with being in Nature, I think, what a shame to breeze by the glory that is Nature and not appreciate the craftsmanship of the crew that worked to maintain the trail. I suppose this is what many white men do, they find new ways to conquer Nature, to take her and the work that goes into maintaining her for granted. In the competition for who’s the greatest, fastest or whatever, the only thing I’m rooting for is Nature and her power to connect and unite people.
Connection is about being human. Humanity isn’t about how you can afford to belong. Let’s embrace the fact that we are both here. Let’s figure out how to get others here, too. I want humanity to flourish together. Here in the High Sierra, with every person that I meet, every interaction I have with humans.
In the spirit of connection, community and the opposite of conquering, I want this post to be an open invitation. I don’t want this to be a Black woman’s solo journey. That’s not community, that’s not connection. I want us to engage section by section, come through when you can, a mile here, piece by piece, let’s work together to change the narrative.
I’m not here to conquer. I’m not here to be the first because this isn’t a competition, this is about change. Meaningful change. How can I afford to do this trip? With the support of a community of folks who want to share the healing power of Nature.
Online community, trail community, BIPOC community, LGBT+ community, differently-abled community, let’s connect. If you can’t make it out on the PCT, connect where you can. Let’s work to connect, not conquer. The only currency is community and love, the objective is to heal humanity and restore Nature.
