How Many Miles Do I need This Time?

I spend a lot of time alone in the mountains. Probably more than most people would understand. There are mornings when I shoulder my pack before sunrise, start walking into the darkness, and honestly don’t know what I’m looking for. I know where the trail goes. I know how many miles are ahead. I know the elevation gain. What I don’t always know is why I need to be there. I just know I do. Maybe I’m trying to get away from something. Maybe I’m trying to find something. Maybe those are the same thing.

The first few miles are always noisy. Not the trail. Me. Work. Money. Relationships. Decisions. Things I should have said. Things I wish I hadn’t said. People I miss. People who disappointed me. People I’ve probably disappointed. The future. The past. Getting older. All the things waiting for me when I get back. It’s amazing how much shit you can carry that doesn’t weigh anything.

So I walk. And eventually the miles start pulling it out of me.One thought at a time. Around mile five, life starts getting quieter. Around mile ten, the unnecessary stuff begins disappearing. Keep going long enough and eventually there’s nothing left to hide behind. That’s one of the things about hiking alone. Nobody is there to distract you from yourself.

I’ve wondered that a lot. Why am I always looking for the longer trail? The bigger climb? The route that makes me slightly nervous when I look at the mileage? Why can’t I just walk five miles to a beautiful lake, sit there for an hour, take some pictures, and go home? Why does some part of me always want to know what’s another ten miles down the trail? Maybe I need to prove something. But I’m not sure who I’m proving it to anymore. Nobody is standing at the trailhead handing out medals. Nobody knows how badly my feet hurt. Nobody sees the moment when I’m standing alone on some climb, bent over my trekking poles, breathing hard and wondering whether I’ve finally bitten off more than I can chew. Nobody hears the conversations I have with myself.

I think about age more than I used to. I hate admitting that. There are moments when my body reminds me that time is moving whether I’m ready for it or not. Recovery takes a little longer. Something hurts that didn’t used to hurt. A climb that should feel easy suddenly doesn’t. And it pisses me off. Not because I believe I’m supposed to stay young forever. I know better than that. It pisses me off because there are still so many places I want to see. So many trails I haven’t walked. So many mornings I haven’t watched the sun come up from somewhere I had to work incredibly hard to reach. I’m not ready to become someone who talks about what he used to do.

So sometimes when I feel my age, I respond in the most reasonable way possible. I find something difficult and go do it. Maybe that’s stubbornness. It probably is. But there’s something deeply satisfying about reaching the top of a brutal climb, looking back at where I started and realizing: You’re still here. You can still do hard things. That matters to me. More than the summit. More than the mileage.

But I’ve also learned something else. There are some things you can’t hike away from. I’ve tried. You can put twenty miles between yourself and the trailhead, but somehow the things that really matter keep pace. Loss does. Regret does. Heartbreak definitely does. Questions about your life are surprisingly good endurance athletes. They’ll follow you over every damn mountain.

For a long time, I think I believed enough distance could somehow make those things disappear. It doesn’t. The trail doesn’t erase anything. It just removes all the distractions you were using to avoid looking at it. And sometimes that hurts. There have been miles where I’ve felt unbelievably grateful for my life. There have been miles where I’ve been angry. There have been miles where I’ve replayed entire chapters of my life wondering what I should have done differently. And there have been miles where I’ve had to accept that some questions don’t have answers. You just carry them differently. Maybe that’s another reason I hike.

I’ve started asking myself this question. Not: How many miles can I do? But: How many miles do I need? How far do I need to walk before everything else becomes quiet? How many miles until the version of me that worries about everything finally shuts up? How far until I stop thinking about who I was supposed to become and start appreciating who I actually am? Five? Fifteen? Thirty? I haven’t figured it out. Some days I find what I need almost immediately. The sun hits the mountains just right. The smell of pine fills the air. The trail disappears into a forest and suddenly I’m completely present. Other days I can walk all damn day and still carry everything with me.

But eventually something happens. Usually when I’m tired. The kind of tired where the ego disappears. I’m no longer thinking about mileage. I’m not thinking about pace. I’m not wondering whether anybody would be impressed by what I’m doing. I’m just walking. Breathing. Existing. And for a little while, that’s enough.

People sometimes describe hiking as an escape. Maybe it is. But I don’t think I’m escaping life. I think I’m trying to get closer to it. Because life feels incredibly real out there. Cold mornings. Tired legs. Hunger. Fear. Beauty. Loneliness. Confidence. Doubt. Wonder. All of it can happen in the same afternoon. There aren’t many places where I feel everything that clearly. And maybe that’s what keeps pulling me back. Not the mileage. Not the summits. Not even the views. It’s the person I meet somewhere deep into a long day when all the other bullshit has been stripped away. Just me. No job title. No expectations. No past. No future. Just the next step.

Maybe I’ll never completely understand why I need this. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to figure it out. I’m okay with that. There are worse ways to search for an answer than walking through the mountains. So, when life gets complicated… When I feel restless… When getting older scares me a little… When something hurts that I can’t quite explain… I know what I’ll do. I’ll grab my pack. I’ll find a trail. I’ll start walking. Until the world gets quiet again. Until I can hear my own footsteps. Until I remember that I’m still capable. Until I feel like myself again.