Sometimes while I am I walking and thinking and spellbound by the beauty of the world around me, I get an overwhelming urge that I HAVE to write and I have to do it RIGHT NOW. It can’t wait. Nope. I can’t tell myself I’ll set those brainwaves free on paper in an hour, once I get wherever I’m going. I can’t just turn those brainwaves off either.

Because sometimes when I walk, it’s almost as if I begin to dwell in a different plane of existence, still on this earth but experiencing it on a different level?one that consumes me. I see, observe and then absorb everything tangible that is around me. Details. Colors. Movement. Placement. If I am close enough, texture. I feel the breeze, sun, rain, mist; when I breathe I taste them. I smell the earth, whatever manmade or natural objects populate the environment, any other beings that take up this space with me. I melt into the earth and into the moment, and we become one. Yes, walking is moving: I am picking up my feet, one after the other, over and over again. Moving. Not still. And yet as I move across the ground that is beneath, I am grounded. (This experience is usually magical, pleasurable, calming, restorative, invigorating. Good. Really good. This is probably why I like walking so much?)

When I begin to exist in that new level of earthly experience, that incredibly urgent NEED to write often pops up at some points. Occasionally it annoys me because I can’t always stop walking and whip out my journal right then and there?that is in fact rarely an option?but for the most part I’ve grown to love nourishing this aspect of myself. Because I’ve found a very easy way to do so: I journal-walk in the notes on my phone. The “journal-walk” nickname is pretty self explanatory, but allow me to solidify this image for you. I whip out my phone, slow my walking pace, begin typing feverishly away, start swerving a bit as I continue to move forward, often stumble once or twice, alternate between looking up and looking down, usually pause and put my phone away before being compelled to continue mere seconds later, but eventually I finish. My phone goes away for good (until it happens again), and the brain waves are released. These journal-walk sessions often turn into some of my best journaling moments.

I am certain that as I hike along the Pacific Crest Trail a large proportion of my journaling will indeed be journal-walking. Yes, I am bringing an actual journal with me (my first trail journal is a subtle green color and has been decorated with not so subtle sunflower duct tape. Sunflower duct tape decorates other pieces of my gear too and is my signature of sorts. I’m quite excited about it.). Yes, I am planning on writing in that journal a lot (enough that I already have replacements purchased and ready for my parents to include in one of my resupply boxes when I need a new one). However, taking off and putting back on my pack is enough of an effort that sometimes I’d simply rather not, and my friend and I need to crank out an average of 20 miles a day to finish the trail in time, and I’ll be thinking, melting into the earth/experience and absolutely overcome by brainwaves so frequently that journal-walking is often going to be the more convenient option.

I’m excited. Very excited. To exist in that magical plane of existence. To experience all of these brainwaves and immortalize them in writing. To share the insights and odes to the beauty of the wilderness that are produced through my journing and journal-walking.

This past Tuesday produced one such successful journal-walk yield which I am going to share with you today to conclude this blog post. Expect many such journal excerpts in the coming posts as I begin my PCT journey.  

I fell into stride. 6:30 a.m. and the sky was still dark—mostly—aside from several pale streaks of first light just beginning to rise in defiance to the night.

My heart quickened in a way that felt calm; My breathing slowed in a way that felt purposeful. Before long my cadence increased. The cold air ceased to feel cold. The stress that had been mounting steadily over the past week melted away.

The sleepy sky awake. A pale blue gradient stretches above and around me, delicately dotted with white white and purple clouds. Directly in front of me is a burst of orange, the brilliant orange of the self-assured sun. Her color leaks out and stains the blue closest to her a soft, milky shade; Her color bounces off the nearest clouds and saturates them with a rosy, pink glow. Beauty all around me.

Just as quick as the metamorphosis from night to morning is my own metamorphosis from lost to found. All I have to do is walk.

Today is March 19 and I still live my civilian life. The walk of which I am currently speaking is from my dorm room to my final pre-PCT physical therapy session: it winds through quaint neighborhoods, across busy streets, and—this is my favorite part—briefly along the Cherry Creek Trail. I am far from in the wilderness, yet each step step fills me with joy. However, in just 5 days, I will be in the wilderness—and every day after that for the next 5 months my walks will wind through silent forests, across snow-melt streams, along mountain ridges with endless panoramic vistas.  The PCT so close I can almost taste it; so close that when I close my eyes I am already there.

And yet, just as I am enamored by the thoughts of the beauty I am about to journey through, so I am humbled by the knowledge of the difficulties and challenges which await me. Enamored, humbled and confident that my resilience, instinct, strength, stubbornness and intelligence will make me succeed.