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.
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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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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2016, 2020, 2021 Pacific Crest Trail, selected sections
2016 President Range in New Hampshire
2016, 2017 Appalachian Trail, selected sections
2019 Continental Divide Trail, selected sections
Arizona
California
Georgia
Minnesota
Montana
Nevada
North Carolina
Oregon
South Dakota
Tennessee
Utah
Wyoming
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Originally posted