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.
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.
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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.
One of my favorite celebrations is Juneteenth, June 19. Today, in 1865, enslaved Black Americans were emancipated. As a backpacker, I find it fitting that the newly freed Blacks rejoiced by going outside. Inherently, people know that to find peace, we need the outdoors. Nature, the great teacher, often reminds me, “Shhh….be quiet and listen.”
I am amazed by how much I’ve learned in my short tenure with Nature. I didn’t grow up with an appreciation for Nature. It evolved and expanded over time. As I gear up for my trek along the John Muir section of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), like many hikers, I find myself devouring books, articles, and videos about other hikers. I have learned a lot from the hiking community, such as the importance of Leave No Trace and navigation skills. Yet, there is limited information on how to mitigate being an Afro-Indigenous Black female, lesbian, or hiker with a disability.
I need to know that I’m not planning my resupply in a town where I will encounter overtly racist or homophobic people, and I need up-to-date information about recharging my medical implant. If you think this is not an appropriate topic for outdoor recreation, you have two options: stop reading or remember the lesson I’ve learned from Nature: “Be quiet and listen.”
To those of you who decided to be quiet and listen, I’ve been disheartened to read various social media comments to the post denouncing or dismissing the experiences of others. Many of those folks speak words of hate and ignorance while proclaiming that the outdoors is “free,” “open,” and “inclusive.” Don’t get me wrong, Nature is the most inclusive place I’ve ever been, but She is not devoid of people or their ideologies and mindsets. The same folks who spew hate, racist, homophobic rhetoric and enable others to do so don’t trade their beliefs for a pair of trekking poles. The trailhead isn’t a magical portal that frees one of their biases nor a mystical road devoid of personal experiences. Wherever we go, we take ourselves and our baggage with us.
I want to address the folks who want to say that politics has no place on the trail and no business in outdoor recreation articles like this and “I don’t see racism, so it doesn’t happen.” Throughout history, parks and trails across the country have been conceptualized, created, and managed by predominantly white men who held racist beliefs. People of color and marginalized folks were rarely considered major stakeholders in outdoor recreation. Historically, people of color have experienced segregation from a multitude of park agencies.
First, you don’t have to experience or observe racism or discrimination directly; instead, you can trust those affected when they tell you it’s a problem. Second, it is impossible to remove these social dynamics from the trail. As many people comment, “Trees aren’t racist,” but the parks and trails that people built are based on racist ideologies and practices. This means that they are, at their core, institutional. I am an Afro-Indidenos Black woman, a lesbian, and I have a disability. I am not “politics!” I find it absurd to hear that racism doesn’t exist in the backcountry, on trails, or at our national parks because the trail is a legacy of racism. One might argue that these things happened long ago, and things are better now, and the outdoors is inclusive. Sure. However, that doesn’t reflect my experiences, which have been echoed in various comments on the aforementioned posts.
My formative years were spent as one of only a handful of Afro-Indidenos Black students at predominantly white schools. I was taught history that excluded my ancestors before slavery and reduced them to a 28-day curriculum in February. I was never taught about York, a Black man who led the Lewis and Clark expeditions, or Matthew Hensen, the first person and the first Black man ever to reach the North Pole. During show and tell, my classmates would bring photos and memorabilia from camping trips and visits to National Parks.
I’ve known about camping and hiking, but none of the people I ever saw in pictures, textbooks, or magazines looked like me. They were white, able-bodied, and mostly males. I’d rarely see women in the outdoors or anyone of color. I associated Nature with whiteness. I didn’t have a teacher or anyone else to teach me otherwise. I have since learned that It’s not Nature that is discriminatory.
On record, my kin originates from the Deep South, the backwoods of Louisiana. My ancestors were enslaved and forced to work in cotton fields — later, in those same fields, my Great Aunts and Uncles would go to play before landowners would forcibly remove them. Little consideration was given to the fact that it was the one place they knew intrinsically. As a result, my kin never encouraged us to connect with Nature, at least not for recreation. I learned, however, the importance of being outside for celebrations. Birthday celebrations, cookouts, and barbecues are ways my relatives readily embrace the outdoors together. We understand the freedom that being outdoors affords.
However, to find peace in the outdoors, we need to have respect. “Shhh….be quiet and listen” and believe other peoples’ experiences. <script async crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>
Rue Mckenrick is unlike any distance backpacker I’ve ever met. As The creator of the American Perimeter Trail (APT), he’s been forging his way around the perimeter of the U.S. hoping to connect the land, resources, people, and communities. For more information, you can read about the project here.
Rue’s APT journey brought him along the North Country Trail, which is located a few miles from my new home in Longville, Minnesota. Arrangements had been made for Rue to stay with me and my partner, Demi. On my way home from work Friday afternoon, I recall thinking, “I’m finally going to be a trail angel!”
Demi had plans to pick him up later that evening, but as most hikers know, it’s hard to keep a schedule. I found Rue trying to hitch a ride into town and picked him up. I’m not sure what he thought – a Black woman picking him up in the middle of nowhere. Undoubtedly he’d been passed by many whites and had likely not seen a Black person in several days.
I thoroughly enjoyed my time with Rue. His energetic spirit, kindhearted nature, and his passion for the APT project were apparent. He shared various highlights of his journey, and we played “Roll It’ (I won, beating him, and Demi!). We discussed gear. Demi and I tried desperately to convince him that Darn Tough socks were the best. He disagreed. I conceded this dude has been hiking for 14 months non-stop, he knows his socks!
Of course, in sharing trail stories, I shared my most recent trek on the Superior Hiking Trail. For a 310-mile journey, as a Black person, I had to forewarn locals about my presence on the trail. I can’t take for granted that I’d been seen as a hiker, an explorer, and a lover of nature. I talked to Rue about his privilege during his journey.
George Floyd East 38th Street and Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis, Minnesota
Early explorers exploited people of color, destroyed the land, came in and brought diseases, and killed generations of Indigenous people. Obviously, Rue was not passing out smallpox blankets or killing Indigenous people, but the institutionalized racism in our country could have still pushed him in the direction of the exploitation of people of color. However, Rue’s mission is solid.
The journeys of white men carving out space in the landscape of this continent are part of the foundation of the U.S. Regardless of his intentions, as a white man, he is part of that cultural landscape. In the backpacking community (like society in general), privilege is being able to hike without thinking, “I should avoid this resupply stop or bypass this section of the trail because I don’t want to deal with racists or the police.” He, and other white hikers, do not have to ask themselves, “Will I be safe hiking through a klan town”?
As a Black person in the outdoors, you don’t get to go out and explore “unannounced” or “uninvited” without making an effort for people to know “who you are” and “why you are there”…, and that has to change.
In reading this, some people might misinterpret this and read that I’m saying Rue’s a bad person or that he shouldn’t be creating this trail. I’m NOT! Rue’s a solid guy with an infectious laugh and deep gratitude for the opportunity he’s been given. His actions are noble.
In this reflection, I’m hoping that folks will consider and perhaps acknowledge the struggles that BIPoC face in the outdoors. My hope upon completion of his project would be that Rue would reach out to communities of color and find out how he can connect with trail communities to make our trails more accessible and safe for all people.
