I had a come to Jesus moment with my 46er journey.
I could not keep pretending I could train the same way, hike the same way, think the same way, and somehow wake up stronger. The Adirondacks do not reward delusion. They reward preparation. They reward humility. They reward adjustment.
If I wanted to keep moving forward toward all 46 High Peaks, I had to stop performing strength and actually build it.
So I adjusted.
Not to what Instagram hikers were doing. Not to what sounded impressive. To what I actually needed.
Me.
After years of researching routes, watching other hikers dial in their systems, overthinking gear lists, and romanticizing lean-tos in golden hour light, I finally did the thing that had been circling in my head.
I went backpacking.
Alone.
Because if I am going to confront my limits, apparently I prefer to do it thoroughly.
Solo multi-day backcountry travel became the quiet obsession. I wanted to know I could carry everything I needed on my back and rely on myself. No emotional support human. No easy bailout plan. No one to hand me a snack when morale dipped.
Just me and my pack moving deeper into the Adirondack woods.
And the woods responded.
I told myself I started backpacking to shave mileage off big summit days. That part was practical. Hiking in a few miles the day before a long push absolutely changes the equation. What once felt like survival mode started to feel strategic. I could approach peaks with fresher legs and a clearer head. My 46er progress shifted from grind to intention.
But that was only the surface benefit.
The real shift was trust.
There is something sobering about stepping onto a trailhead knowing you will not see your car again for days. Everything you need is on your back. Shelter. Food. Water filtration. Layers. Light.
You either have it, or you do not.
The first time I settled into camp alone, I kept waiting for the anxiety to spike. For the doubt to creep in. For the realization that I had overestimated myself.
Instead, I felt steady.
I walked into the woods with three days of gear and realized I was good. I can problem solve. I can manage discomfort. I can be alone without feeling isolated. I can wake up sore, make coffee in the quiet, and move forward anyway.
The Adirondacks are not gentle teachers. Weather shifts quickly. Trails erode. Rocks roll. Distances stretch. If something goes wrong, help is often hours away. You learn quickly that self reliance is not bravado. It is responsibility.
And strangely, it is freedom.
Backpacking did not just make my summit days stronger. It carved out space in my head. The noise quieted. The constant measuring of myself against others softened. Out there, there is no audience. Just breath, terrain, and the steady rhythm of boots on trail.
Also, for the record, I did not hate it.
I loved it.
I came out of that summer at least 100 notches more feral and significantly less fragile. The girl who once called herself not outdoorsy now voluntarily disappears into the woods for days at a time. The identity shift still makes me laugh.
Growth is wild like that.
It rarely looks polished. It often looks like dirt under your nails, a slightly too heavy pack, and the realization that you are far more capable than you allowed yourself to believe.
The 46er journey is still unfolding. The mountains are still humbling. But somewhere between overthinking and overpacking, I found something steadier than confidence.
I found trust.
And once you learn to trust yourself in the backcountry, it has a funny way of following you home.
Leave a Reply