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.
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.
