Reflections of the Continental Divide Trail

Reflections of hiking the Continental Divide Trail and my own personal Trail Magic!

It’s a kick to revisit something I wrote before hiking the Continental Divide Trail ( the previous blog post)—like reading a note from a past self. Who would’ve thought I’d end up where I am now? Honestly, it felt like pure magic: that wide, quiet kind of wonder that keeps unfolding, the awe of awe.

I fell hard for Billy on the trail — not the slow, predictable kind of falling, but the kind that knocks the wind out of you and rearranges everything you thought you knew about yourself. We met stretched across 3,000 miles of Rockies, from Canada to Mexico, hiking one deliberate step after another, and what started as a shared curiosity — the innocent spark of two young hearts testing an unknown — became the steady flame of something far deeper.

We were not fresh-faced and naive; we were travelers who had already lived whole lives separately. Each of us carried histories, mistakes, lessons, and scars. We weren’t searching for “the one” because we’d learned that stepping into another person before you could stand in your own light only ends in shadows. Instead, we showed up for the harder work: unpacking old stories, confronting insecurities, chiseling away at ego until what remained was honest and raw.

On the trail, under wide-open skies and the relentless rhythm of trail runners on dirt, we practiced vulnerability like a craft. We traded bravado for confession, competition for care. We learned to love the parts of each other that were golden and to gently release the parts that no longer served. Our confidence didn’t arrive overnight; it was earned in the small acts — the sharing of rations, the tending of blisters, the late-night talks where each revelation felt like both surrender and salvation.

There was something sacred about meeting someone in motion. The mountains tested us — weather, fatigue, doubt — and what held was real. In that strip of wilderness stretching thousands of miles, we found not just companionship but a mirror: the reflection of who we were becoming when stripped of pretense. Billy became more than a partner on the route; he became the person who welcomed my whole self — shadows and all — and loved me through the slow art of healing.

By the time the trail ended, there was no dramatic declaration needed. We had become fluent in each other’s silences, fluent in the soft language of care. Where we once might have clung to expectation or fear, we now chose presence. I didn’t just fall in love — I grew into it, step by deliberate step, with Billy beside me and the Rockies as our witness.

During that stretch of our lives before we met, we were moving like constellations—each of us tracing our own orbits, almost stepping on the same footprints but never quite. We scattered tiny clouds of trail dust and quiet synchronicity behind us, invisible threads tying our separate journeys together and me, finding a small red swiss army knife that Billy had accidentally left behind on the Arizona Trail and I found it when we were just 3 days apart and never actually crossed paths on that trail. We kept living boldly—climbing, wandering, collecting small wonders—while the universe waited with patient composure until our paths finally converged.

And then, bam: a sunlit picnic table in East Glacier, a hundred miles into the trail, ten minutes of casual conversation. His smile hit me like a sudden warmth after a cold night—bright, contagious, immediate. Energy flowed from him straight into my chest; it felt like recognition, like something already known. For a beat I wanted to admit it, to let that feeling unfurl.

But courage lagged behind the moment. I folded inward, into focus and protection, the old instinct to guard my heart taking the lead. I stayed faithful to the solo trek, to the promise of my own wild, independent route—watching, feeling, and keeping that sudden spark tucked carefully in my pack.

But of course, our paths kept converging in the woods, as if the forest itself had stitched together a pattern meant only for us. Each crossing felt like a small piece of fate folding into place — he’d materialize from some other spur, stepping onto the same tread I’d somehow missed or avoided. Maybe my map-reading was terrible; maybe that was the point. I wandered, half-lost and wholly untethered, following whims and starlight more than any compass. There was a kind of reckless grace to it: my trail runners tripping me, laughter beating back the quiet, two wayward souls finding each other again and again beneath the trees.

I was actually too shy to engage too much at first. It was like magnetic force pulling me to him and I was resisting. I resisted for another 100 miles or so until a group of hikers went out for dinner in Helena, Montana. It was that night that we talked for hours and it was this instant connect, like talking with a long lost friend but better. The swoon of all swoons.

Billy and I spent the rest of the hike together, moving in a loose tandem—him usually a few paces ahead, me following close enough to watch the back of his pack carve the trail. My breaths came loud and sharp, each exhalation a small panic that reminded me I was not as steady as I wanted to be. On other hikes I’d slip on headphones and let music or the steady hush of the woods smooth the edges of my breathing. I liked those hikes because I could drift far enough from other people to feel the delicious, necessary aloneness I craved. I called myself a solo hiker, even when someone else’s silhouette broke the line of the ridge; solitude, for me, was not absence of company but the permission to be fully myself—vulnerable, lung-full, and moving forward at my own pace.

Being an extrovert in most settings, I am equally an introvert. I can go hours, days, even weeks alone without feeling disconnected from the world. Solitude is part of my power — a way to re-energize, refocus, and refill my reservoir. It brings a clear, steady joy to my soul.

On the hike, I got to live that balance. We didn’t have to fill every moment with conversation; often we walked in companionable silence, our footsteps and breath the only soundtrack. At times we moved out of sight of one another and felt no urgency to reconnect — the shared trust was enough. Other moments were light and loud: playful banter, trading stories, or splashing under a sudden shower.

I remember one rainy afternoon — we tucked ourselves beneath a great, sheltering tree and watched a movie on a small screen while the rain stitched patterns on the leaves above. I felt utterly content, cocooned in quiet company.

And then there was my climate drama: the minute my body decides it’s too hot, I’m overheating; the next instant I’m shivering. Clothes become a negotiation with the weather and my nervous system, a flurry of layers that never seem quite right. My friends held the space for it anyway, patient and practical — offering a jacket, a laugh, a steadying presence when my temperature tantrum spiraled into claustrophobic panic.

That mix — the roomy silences, the bursts of company, the small flare-ups of discomfort — is what made the hike true to me. It honored both my need for connection and my need for withdrawal, letting me come back to the trail lighter, calmer, and more myself.
We spent six weeks navigating peaks above 10,000 feet — sometimes coughing for breath, sometimes dazed from thin air, but always moving. Our days ranged from 10 to 35 miles depending on how our legs and spirits felt. Together we pushed through challenges that tested us physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

Along the way we found moments of pure joy: laughing with trail friends, being spoiled by supporters who met us with cold beers, hot food, and warm company. Those small respites stitched a sense of community into the long miles.

That trek stands as one of my favorite memories. The pride and joy it gave me still ripple through my everyday life — a constant reminder that doing hard things and trusting the process builds depth and resilience. The grit we forged on the trail has made me tougher in life and more grounded in my relationships.

I’m so grateful.