Have you ever had one of those days on trail where the views are obscured, rain is soaking straight through your so-called waterproofs, and the only way to stay warm is to keep pushing forward, step by squishy step into endless claggy puddles of unknown depth?
Asking for a friend…
In the world of thru-hiking, those days are to be expected. We even have a saying: “Embrace the suck.”
That’s usually said with a wry smile or an ironic laugh because it’s less about comfort than a reminder that you chose this. You chose to be out here, in the wild and at the mercy of a fickle Mother Nature.
The trail is a funny thing. It can be a goal, a refuge, even a relentless teacher.
No matter how much I prepare for all eventualities, I never really know what the trail will offer until I place my feet on it. The surprises are endless. Not just with the terrain, the weather, the people I meet, but most importantly in how I respond in the moment.
Anyone who’s hiked knows what you see on Instagram barely scratches the surface. Hiking is rarely only wondrous beauty and transformational healing.
I’ve walked through more than my fair share of miserable conditions like bog-trotting in the afore-mentioned cold, endless rain. Looking at you, Te Araroa!
Or that time on the Arizona Trail when my gear got infested with biting insects and landed me in the hospital.
Or in Montana’s Bob Marshall Wilderness, when I lost count at 100 blowdowns, logs stacked on top of each other like matchsticks and making for some creative reroutes.
And, if you hadn’t noticed or were just being polite, I’m facing these challenges as a hiker of a certain age.
Some days, I feel strong. Other days, I’m just gritting it out, putting one foot in front of the other because I promised myself I would.
But what I’ve come to learn is this: the trail is like life. It doesn’t care what I want it to be. It’s not here to meet my expectations. It simply is.
That might sound grim, as if I’m setting myself up for misery. But there’s a strange kind of freedom in that.
I remember summiting Sca Fell on a wretched, fog-choked day, convinced I was the only fool out there. Then, out of the mist, came another hiker. With a grin, he said to me, “If we’re not willing to go out in poor weather, we’ll never go out at all.”
Call me a realist, but I believe the trail gives us something powerful. The trail may not always be what we want it to be, but it offers us the opportunity to choose how we respond to whatever it doles out. We can either embrace the suck, or by golly, the suck will embrace us!
That’s the real gift—choosing resilience in the face of whatever comes.
Like a summit day ruined by storms, life isn’t fair. Bad things happen. But joy and sorrow come in equal measure, and both are part of life’s trail.
Henry David Thoreau once wrote,
Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit.
The trail teaches this best. If we want wonder and transformation, if we want to be resilient, we have to stop demanding the trail—and life—be something it’s not and get out there anyway, step after uncertain step.
Moving forward, even when it’s hard, is an act of faith. With every step, we’re not just covering ground. We’re shifting something inside, reminding ourselves that things will change and there’s more waiting just beyond where we are.
And remember, rain may soak you to the bone, but it’s also what gives us rainbows.
Copyright © 2025 alison young • blissful hiker
