Tag: Pacific Crest Trail

  • Disabled Hikers: Building an Equitable Existence to Thrive

    I can. I must. I will.

    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. 

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″

         crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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. 

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″

         crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    Original version Disabled Hikers

  • PCTA: Building relationships with Earth—and one another

    PCTA: Building relationships with Earth—and one another

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

     

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>
  • PCTA: Through hiking

    PCTA: Through hiking

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

  • PCTA: Collaborative Reciprocity

    PCTA: Collaborative Reciprocity

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></script>

    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.

    <script async src=”https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-6139803315441080″
    crossorigin=”anonymous”></scrip

    Originally posted

  • Some other beginning’s end . . .

    Some other beginning’s end . . .

    I started the Pacific Crest Trail earlier in the season to account for my slowness. To my surprise, it turns out I am fleet-footed when it comes to hiking. For the sake of slowing down my hiking pace a bit in an attempt to outsmart mother nature (impossible), I took the train from Tehachapi, CA to Oakland, CA. There I met with friends and family for a week.

    During that week, I was hoping to waste enough time to begin my trek safely from Kennedy Meadows into the High Sierra. Oakland was a bit of a cultural shock. I’d never been there before my hike. Being the first densely populated city I’d encountered in weeks, it was overwhelming. I had a very good time, though.

    Upon my return to the trail, I hiked slowly, to ease myself back into my groove. I felt uneasy, but I assumed that I’d grown lazy during my trail break. I pushed on. I walked a total of 5 miles the first day before setting up camp for the evening. My entire being ached that night as I lay in my tent and slept.

    The next day refreshed and renewed I set off to increase my distance from the before. I made it two miles before I couldn’t stand. Nothing is scarier, in my opinion than feeling dizzy and lightheaded while hiking on the side of a windy cliff. Fearing for my safety, I stopped at the first makeshift campsite I could find.

    I thought about heading back to town, thinking I just needed more time to acclimate from being at sea level, before continuing my entrance into the Sierra. For miles, all I could see were mountains, surrounded by more mountains. Though incredibly beautiful, I was becoming ill, and I knew it.

    Being so close to town, I had cellular reception. I got a few pep talks from friends and family, and I slept it off that night. Admittedly, I woke up weary, no longer excited from the support rally that took place the previous day. I packed my bag and stood to return to town. That’s when I met a woman who follows my blog, and she told me I was an inspiration to her.

    She said that she admired the way I took control over my health and inspire others to do the same. She reminded me of why I started hiking. With a new sense of dedication, I set off, forcing my body to move. I hiked 22 miles that day, suffering for most of those miles.

    Suffering is not the intent of my journey. The altitude mixed with the various barometric pressure changes caused me extreme discomfort, dizziness, and vomiting. My Medtronic neuromodulator, though amazing, offered no relief for the symptoms.

    The following morning while breaking down my tent, I leaned forward and fell head-first on a small rock. (The science of things: my leads are subdermal, any impact causes discomfort, contact sends a stinging pain throughout my head). As I lay there, physical pain mixed with negative emotions and swelled inside of me. Determined not to fail, I gathered myself and finished breaking down my site.

    I thought about the hiker I’d recently met. Suddenly, I knew that pushing myself through something painful is the exact opposite of health and well-being.

    Of courses being a badass, I wanted to go on record as saying I did not need my ACR Personal Locator Beacon. Furthermore, wanting to say, “I never turned back,” I insisted on hiking myself down the valley to past the PCT mile marker 600. With a hiker a few distances in front and another following from the rear, I hiked to the road to the waiting trail angels.
    More than anything, my hike is about reconnecting with myself. Seven weeks, 6.5 sections, and 614 miles on the PCT are what it took for me to connect. Again, I took control of my health and decided to end my journey with a few tears, bruises, and fond memories . . .
    600 miles hiking the PCT with a neuromodulator, and one headlight. I mean headlamp, seriously, did you catch the reference?  It’s been a long journey, and there are miles to go . . . However, for me, those miles will not take place on the PCT.

    Finally in tune, connecting I can hear myself speak, and my voice is filled with pride.

    IMG_2539

     

    IMG_2525