On the border of Germany and France sat an unassuming white mailbox. It marked the beginning of one of the most awe-inspiring journeys of my life. 

A ribbon of trail unfurled in front of me, extending over 3000 kilometres. I didn’t know it yet—not entirely, at least—but that long sliver of dirt would test me, move me, guide me, and change me.

I was embarking on the Hexatrek. This brand-new thru hike (a name given to hiking a long trail, end to end, in one go) starts in France and ends in Spain. It typically takes several months, and the experience of being on the trail supersedes that of the end goal.

I’ve been part of the thru-hiking community for a while now. A couple of years ago, when I attempted to hike the Pacific Crest Trail in the USA, I got completely absorbed in the magic of trail life, the friendships I formed, and the freedom I felt. I was hooked on the lifestyle and spent the next two years working and saving and dreaming of the day I could get back on a trail.

There are a lot of beautiful trails in the world, and many that are closer to my home of Vancouver—but what caught my eye about the Hexatrek in particular was that it was new. There were no spoilers, no books or blogs, very few pictures, and even fewer hikers who had completed it. Something about not knowing what to expect grabbed hold of my imagination. 

I wanted to do this trek solo. I had relied heavily on the camaraderie of my trail family on the Pacific Crest Trail and wanted to challenge myself to do this one on my own. I liked the idea of not compromising, being able to listen to my body, and getting comfortable being alone in the backcountry, relying only on my own skills to survive. It would be an opportunity to level up as a backpacker and come out stronger.

Armed with a sleeping bag, tent, cooking supplies, and a whole lot of optimism, I set off on my first few kilometres from Wissembourg toward Hendaye. 

The trail traverses six stages, each with their own unique beauty and set of challenges. The first is gentle and rolling through low, green mountains—the perfect training ground for what’s to come. Stages two and three wind through the Alps, up and over seemingly endless mountain passes, across fields of boulders, and through alpine valleys so beautiful I nearly tear up just thinking about them. Stage four comes with gorges and rivers, and significantly less elevation. Finally, stages five and six traverse the high Pyrenees, through some of the most remote mountains on the trail, before making their way down into Basque Country toward the Atlantic coast. 

There’s no training quite as good as simply being on trail, and as I continued to hike, I got stronger. Days turned into weeks, and the muscles in my legs adapted to the daily miles; my shoulders got used to the weight of my pack, and each night as I tucked myself into my sleeping bag, I began to feel like these foreign mountains were my home. 

After a while, the rest of the world faded away. Without regular cell reception, work obligations, and social media readily at my fingertips, my nervous system calmed and my mind was free to wander. I became more mindful and present, more likely to notice the buds of spring popping up through the remaining snow. I became comfortable in silence and didn’t feel the need to distract myself while I ate my 87th packet of instant noodles from a metal cup. This feeling is what I try to hold onto when I return home. This is what I keep coming back for.

Despite the beauty around me and my absolute joy of being back on trail and in my element, it did not come without significant tests of my endurance and commitment. I traversed sketchy, snow-covered passes with trembling legs. I was rocked by thunderstorms in the high Alps, spending half the night holding my tent up against the whipping wind. I caught a stomach bug from bad water and spent a full day laying on the floor of a campground kitchen in Switzerland. I was caught in a record heatwave, with temperatures well into the forties for over a week. I hiked through pouring rain and fresh snow. There were many times when I was cold and uncomfortable, exhausted beyond belief, dirty, smelly, and in a state of near-constant hunger.

But this is where the growth comes: at our edges. I adapted to being cold, I learned how to fuel my body better so that I wasn’t always starving, and I began to love my hairy, sweaty, smelly body and the magic it was performing by taking me one step at a time across the landscape. I got comfortable being alone in wild places. I learned how to read the weather, and how to find a campsite out of the wind. I learned how far I could hike in a day—51 kilometres, by the way—and how to hitchhike in French.

I think my greatest lesson, though, was to trust myself. I was the one calling all the shots out there, the one carrying my pack up and over mountains, and the one alternately calming myself down and hyping myself up when I needed it. I faced my fears head-on and became braver and more confident as I overcame each challenge ahead of me. I became my own best friend, my own shoulder to cry on, and my own biggest cheerleader. I managed not only to survive out there, but to have an absolute blast while doing it.

After 121 days on trail, 3,034 kilometres of hiking, 138,000 metres of elevation, and more memories than I can count, I followed the trail to the Atlantic Ocean in Hendaye. I had reached the end of the Hexatrek, and was the first North American woman ever to do it.