Virginia is the state with the largest portion of Appalachain Trail. I have many memories to share from my time there. Here is just another fraction of them: 

Bye Bye Birdie

In the morning light I walked the ridgeline of Sinking Creek Mountain in Virginia. I stopped to admire an orange toad on a bed of leaves, keeping Dude at arms length. As Dude and I continued walking through the awakening woods we startled a bird, flushing it out of a bush beside us. Fast as lightning, Dude darted toward the bird. To my astonishment and growing horror, I saw that he had caught the bird between his jaws. He proudly pranced over to me, face full of feathers. I made him drop it, but it was too late… RIP little birdie. 

On the Banks of Trout Creek

At Trout Creek I saw the guys I’d been hiking with that day, Shaggy and Sandman/Cable (a man of many names, his trail name is now Dugout). The guys were on the other side of the creek, on a flat rocky bank, wading in the water. With my Branwyn Merino Wool bra and underwear dubed as a swimsuit, I walked towards the water. I slowly started submerging my body into the ice cold water then, slipping on a rock, I fully plunged in. The guys began skipping rocks. I tried though my skills were sorely lacking. I was content to watch the men continually up the rock skipping anti. They were getting rocks to skip across the creek then land in a space between roots of a tree. Dude watched unimpressed from the bank of the creek. 

Rattled

Shaggy and I struggled up Brushy Mountain together. It was a loooong ascent. At the top we saw the Audie Murphy Monument. Audie Murphy, the most decorated US solider in WWII, died in a plane crash on the slopes of the mountain in 1971. The monumnet made us think about the people we have lost in our lives. We began talking about the loss of our loved ones.

We were engrossed in conversation when Shaggy, who was walking in front of Dude and I, suddenly jumped back. There was a rattle snake on the trail! It immediately started to rattle its tail ferociously. That got Dude’s attention! I got a good grip on him and hauled him back to keep him from going after the snake like it was a toy to be played with. Shaggy told me about how he almost got bit by a rattle snake on his birthday. We waited for it to go away then gave the area it previously occupied a wide berth as we went by. 

Dragon’s Tooth

Really I just adore the name, Dragons Tooth. What a fun mental image. I imagine a snaggled tooth dragon flying through the air, fiddling with a bothersome tooth. The tooth pops out and lands on a mountain top where it remains to this day. The Dragon’s Tooth is just off mile 702.4 of the AT. Dude and I walked down to check it out. It’s popular to climb to the top of the tooth, posing for a picture. We didn’t, but maybe next time…

Huckleberry’s Hostel

Huckleberry hiked the Appalachain Trail last year and decided to open a hostel this one. Some men he had hiked the trail with were having a reunion, doing trail magic and staying at the hostel together. They gave Dude attention and treats. One of the men kindly gave me a fuel canister since mine had run out. 

I was in the bunkhouse, a barn-shed space converted to have bunks. I got a full size one for Dude and I. Weatherman was in the bunk next to mine with Sinch above him. We were the only others in bunkhouse. To Dude’s delight, I odered too much Italian food delivery for dinner meaning he got to help finish it off. Breakfast was served at the kitchen table in the main house. The fresh fruit, eggs and biscuits were delightful. Dude and I hit the trail with Spoons and Bootleg who had tented in the yard the night before.

 Triple Crown

We hiked through a field, Dude mistrustful of the cows meandering through it, before plunging back into the woods. Today we would complete the “Triple Crown of Virginia”, three of the most iconic hikes in the state. Dragon’s Tooth was the first. McAfee Knob was next, with the Tinker Cliffs to finish it off. It was a blue skied sunny day, perfect for seeing sweeping views from mountain tops. I knew McAfee Knob, at mile 714.5 of the AT, was an impressive sight but I was still stunned when I stepped out on to the rocks. There is nothing like being there in person.

Bootleg snapped some amazing pictures of Dude and I on the rock outcrop. We all stopped for snacks and water near the next shelter before continuing on to the Tinker Cliffs at mile 720.1. From the Cliffs you can look back at McAfee Knob, it’s always satisfying to see how far you’ve come. I peered down at the valley below, nestled between the mountains and felt on top of the world.

New Shoes

Daleville, VA, at mile 730.6, has a shopping plaza about 0.3 miles from the trail. The downside is having to walk along a large, busy, unshaded road. Dude and I cautiously made our way to the outfitters. It was time to get a new pair of shoes. I stuck with the same set up I had before, Altra Lone Peak trail runners with a Superfeet insole. I’ve had hardly a blister to speak up. No feet issues, just some expected soreness at the end of big mileage days. So why chage a good thing? My light purple, model 9 lone peak shoes were pristine, I knew that wouldn’t last for long so I soaked up thier newness while I could.

Hero

I took Dude into the grocery store. We walked in with confidence so no one stopped us but I also attribut this to his red vest which makes him look like a service dog. In the store we ran into One Speed who told me that Kaleidoscope was there too! I hadn’t seen her since Roan Mountain. I found her in the store, greeting her with an excited hello and hug. It was great to see her again! We sat at a table outside a Cafe, eating pints of ice cream we got at the grocery store. Dude barked at anyone who dared to walk by us and for our part, Kaleidoscope and I chatted with the other hikers who went by. But mostly we talked to each other, catching up on the past weeks we had been apart. It came to a time where we sadly had to part ways. 

I walked 5 more miles out of Daleville to stay the night at Fullhardt Knob Shelter, mile 735.6. On the way to the shelter, I passed the one third marker. I was 1/3 of the way to Katahdin! I was excited to see my progress on the trail. When I got to the shelter and walked around the area surrounding it, where people would normaly be camped, I saw that it was empty. No one else was around, it was just Dude and I. I kept expecting another hiker to come along but no one did. It was eerie. Though we were alone, I ended up enjoying the solitude and was proud of myself for heroing. Doing a hero is going into town, resuppling and then leaving, all in the same day. You don’t stay the night in town if you do a hero. It is so hard to leave town once you are in it but I did.

 Flawleash 

Dude broke our waist leash. A clear design flaw. The same thing had happened at home, before my hike. Dude had pulled so hard and so fast going after a cat that the metal piece, which the leash loops through, ramed into the plastic buckle with such force as to break it off. The same thing happened when Dude went after another critter in the woods. When the shock of my own waist being ferociously yanked and the leash falling apart wore off, I was angry. I was mad at the leash design, mad at myself for using my refund to buy the exact same leash again and mad at Dude for pulling so hard. Tears of frustration weld up in my eyes. I was glad I was alone in the woods with no one else around to see me cry. I sat by a stream, filled water and got myself together. I tied the waist leash around my waist then Dude and I continued hiking. 

Good Company 

At mile 779.9, I was reunited with Kaleidoscope again. I camped at Marble Spring with her and the large group she had been hiking with. The group consisted of Weast, hiking with her dad, Two Timer, then there was Munk, Uno, Thor, Magnum, Yellow Shoes and Signapore. I went from hiking and camping with only Dude for company the past few days to being surrounded by people. I was thrilled to have human companions again.

We all sat around a camp fire talking, cooking and then eating dinner. I found out that I had the Britney Spears lyrics to the song Stronger all wrong. I had been singing, “Now it’s nothing but a mile away”, in my head whenever I got a mile away from a destination. The other girls informed me that the lyrics are actually, “Now it’s nothing but my way”. Disappointing. In spite of my mind being rocked by the lyrical correction, I slept better than ever. I was comforted by the fact that other thru hikers were camped around me. If anything were to happen in the middle of the night, they would be there to help. 

Daily Log of Location & Miles

63 – 06/06/25 

Sinking Creek Mountain – Pickle Branch Shelter 🛖

Mile 680.5 – 698.2 

17.7 miles 

64 – 06/07/25

Pickle Branch Shelter – VA-624 Huckleberry’s Hostel 🏠

Mile 698.2 – 704.9

6.7 miles 

65 – 06/08/25

VA-624, Huckleberry’s Hostel – Lamberts Meadow Shelter ⛺️

Mile 704.9 – 721.2 

16.3 miles 

66 – 06/09/25

Lamberts Meadow Shelter – Fullhardt Knob Shelter 🛖

Mile 721.2 – 735.6 

14.4 miles 

67 – 06/10/25 

Fullhardt Knob Shelter – Bearwallow Gap, VA-43 ⛺️

Mile 735.6 – 752.2

Miles 16.6 

68 – 06/11/25

Bearwallow Gap, VA-43 – Cornelius Creek Shelter ⛺️

Mile 752.2 – 767.5 

Miles 15.3 

69 – 06/12/25 

Cornelius Creek Shelter – Marble Spring ⛺️

Mile 767.5 – 779.9 

Miles 12.4 

Woke Up in the Fog

It’s Day 0. The trail hasn’t started yet, but I have. I woke up at 6:00 a.m., rolled out of my tent at 6:15, and stepped into a foggy Icelandic morning—51 degrees and misty. A little pain in my knees when I stood and surprisingly no stiffness anywhere else. That’s rare. Normally, pavement walks ruin me. But today? I feel… good.

I finished charging my devices, with them both off to charge faster, sipped coffee and ate leftover mapo tofu and tried to pack while racing the clock. My bus to Landmannalaugar was set for 7:45 a.m. I arrived at 7:37 a.m., thanks to the internal video producer clock I’ve never been able to turn off. My pack was a disaster, but who cares? I’d be hiking with just a daypack today. And ending the day in a hot spring.

Doing the Math

While scarfing down breakfast and sorting my gear, I found myself reflecting on how many Europeans I’ve met out here—and how often I’ve had to convert units just to keep up in conversation. Distance, elevation, temperature… it’s a whole different language. So here are my quick-and-dirty shortcuts for trail talk:

• Celsius to Fahrenheit: Double the Celsius and add 30. It’s not perfect, but it’s close enough for weather chat.

• Kilometers to Miles: Divide the number by 10, then again by 2, and add the two results. For example, 100 kilometers is 100/10= 10 and 100/2= 50. Then 10 + 50 = roughly 60 miles.

• Meters to Feet: Multiply by 3 for a rough estimate.

It’s not perfect but good enough to hold your own in an international hiking crowd.

The Bus Ride: Fog Outside And In

About 45 minutes outside Reykjavík, the fog rolled in so thick it erased everything outside the bus window. Which left me alone with the inside of my head—a place that was suddenly loud.
What if I get too cold? What if I lose the trail in the fog? What if my hands freeze? What if I get injured? 

If your brain does this, too—spiraling just when you’re on the brink of something exciting—you’re not alone. That’s what fear does.. It just comes up at the worst possible time.

But somewhere in that foggy, frantic moment, my mind reached back to a hike I did with my friend Amanda a couple months before. Seven miles in the pouring rain. It was soaking, squishy, miserable—and the perfect mental training for what I’m doing now. Funny how the brain buries those moments until you really need them. This is what preparing for something big is all about: not just the gear and the fitness, but the quiet work of building up resilience when no one’s watching.

Still, as the miles ticked on and the fog didn’t lift, my thoughts drifted to something even heavier.

A year ago—July 2024—I wasn’t out hiking or prepping for any grand adventure. I was glued to YouTube, binging long-distance trail videos and running 5k’s. I felt… stuck. Flat. Not like myself. And I started to notice a pattern: when I wasn’t hiking regularly, my energy dipped. My joy dimmed. I wasn’t depressed exactly, but something was off—and I knew it.

I knew I needed something to look forward to. Something that would nudge me back to life. Something to train for—not just physically, but emotionally. But there was a catch: my partner wanted a milestone birthday trip to Japan in 2025. That had always been the big plan. And I supported it fully.

So I quietly tucked my Iceland idea into the “someday” file and focused on being supportive. On being realistic. But the truth is, I was also silencing something vital in myself. And at the time, I didn’t realize how much that would matter.

Torn Between Two Dreams

By November, I had strategically saved enough money to cover flights to Japan for both of us. I was serious about showing up for her plan. But I still felt pulled—by the Icelandic Highlands, by the trails, by the version of myself I hadn’t seen in a while. I started researching the Japanese Alps, hoping maybe there was a way to make both things work: her vision and my need to hike something hard and beautiful.

It almost worked. I thought I’d found the perfect compromise. But then the dates shifted. First we looked at May, then September, then maybe March. All totally understandable—there were a lot of moving parts to juggle on her end. But each change made it harder for me to keep the momentum I’d built. My anxiety started to climb. I felt tat I was going to miss out on a hike I knew I needed. 

Iceland’s hiking season is brutally short. And every new timeline made it feel like my window was closing. I finally asked if March was the plan, and when she said yes, I made a decision. Hiking the Japaneses Alps in March is not an option and I needed something locked in—something I could plan around, train for, and keep my focus on. Not to mention, it was February. So, I booked my July trip to Iceland.

That meant letting go of Japan. Letting go of the plan. And no matter how necessary it felt, it didn’t sit easy.

Gratitude and Guilt 

Now, as the bus winds toward the Highlands, I’m flooded with mixed feelings. I’m deeply grateful to be here. This place already feels like exactly what I needed. But guilt? Yeah, that came with me, too.

After everything was booked and training was underway, my partner decided on Japan in October. It’s a gorgeous time to visit—but a tough season for hiking the Alps. That’s me trying to make it feel like less of a loss. But it still stings.

I feel guilty she’s not here.
Guilty I won’t be there.
Guilty that I needed this so badly, I prioritized it over her needs and wants.

Here’s the thing: guilt often shows up when we’re doing something brave and self-preserving. It likes to confuse the two. It makes us question whether honoring our own needs means we’re failing someone else. But that’s rarely the truth.

It’s easy to say, “You should never lose yourself in a relationship.” But it’s much harder to know when and how to speak up for what you need.  Maybe that’s just a me thing. 

This trip doesn’t mean I’ve stopped supporting her. It means I chose to support myself, too.

And I think that’s okay. Even if the guilt still rides along sometimes.

The bus keeps rolling forward. The fog’s still thick. But I’m learning that it’s possible to carry conflicting emotions in the same backpack: gratitude and guilt, excitement and sadness, clarity and confusion. You don’t have to have it all sorted before you take the first step.

Sometimes, you just go anyway.

When the Highlands Whisper Back

Something shifted the moment we turned off the main road and onto Iceland’s rugged F-roads. The bus bumped along through thick fog and past jagged lava fields, and with each mile, the grip of guilt began to loosen.

For the first time in a long time, I felt present.

The sun burned off the fog and the black and green mountain started to appear and my world was now focused on jaw dropping beauty. Scenery I had never seen before. In that moment, the Icelandic Highlands whispered louder than the voices in my head. And I finally allowed myself to listen.

Camp Conversation

After setting up camp at Landmannalaugar and inhaling a quick lunch, I met Todd and Katya—an adventurous couple from Toronto who got engaged in Patagonia on the O Trek (which is my 2027 hike). We quickly went from trail talk to real talk: healthcare, racism, politics. When I invited them to visit me in the Smokies, they politely declined—at least until our current president is out of office. It was the kind of honest, open exchange that reminds you how different—and similar—our lives can be across borders.

Just a “Quick” Hike

Later that afternoon, I headed out for what was supposed to be a mellow 4-mile loop—just enough to stretch my legs after the long travel day. I followed trail markers out of Landmannalaugar, winding through a surreal landscape of steaming vents, jagged ridgelines, and neon-green moss. The terrain looked like a mash-up of Mars and Middle Earth.

Following the Sound

The silence in Iceland is insane. No bugs, no plans and at the moment no wind. After a while, I heard it—the unmistakable roar of glacial runoff echoing through a nearby valley. I trusted my ears, dropped into the valley, and hiked about a mile and a half until I found a perfect spot by the water to have a snack. Just me and the rush of ice-cold melt water carving through stone.

Into the Mist And Fog

On my way back, I spotted two hikers and headed toward them—then noticed a sign pointing to a mountain trail. Naturally, I climbed. As I reached the top, the fog closed in like a curtain. No visibility. No trail in sight. Just white. I paused, unsure of my next move—until a group of local hikers appeared like ghosts out of the mist. They knew the way and pointed me in the right direction. With their help, Gaia GPS, and a little faith, I found the path down. Five minutes into the descent, the fog cleared like it had never been there at all.

A Longer Welcome Than Expected

The trail led me through a lava field, along another glacial river, and finally back to camp. What was supposed to be a quick loop turned into a 9.5-mile adventure—and the perfect way to meet Iceland on its own wild terms.

Tent Time

Back at camp, I made a decision: no more socializing tonight. I cooked in the vestibule (boiled water counts as cooking, thank you very much) and ate a quinoa bowl topped with crunched Takis and Icelandic chocolate for dessert. Not gourmet, but it hit the spot.

I let my phone charge while I wrote a bit in my journal. I popped a sleeping pill, set no alarm, and gave myself permission to rest.

Tomorrow is a seven-mile day. I know I can do that. There’s no pressure. The sun never really sets here, so I’ll walk when I’m ready.

Right Where I’m Supposed to Be

Today’s hike was longer than planned, but also exactly what I needed. I didn’t think about work or bills or anything outside this mossy, volcanic wonderland. I was just here. In my body. On this land. Moving forward.

Day 0 reminded me that the trail begins before your first step. It starts in your doubts, your daydreams, your bank accounts, your dinner conversations. It begins when you say, “I think I want this,” and someone replies, “I know you will.”

And now? I’m here. On the edge of a journey I’ve been building toward for months. And it feels really, really good.