A Lonely Way to Walk

 “Sometimes the road less travelled is less travelled for a reason.”

Jerry Seinfeld

 

The Choices We Make

 

When we first stepped away from conventional lives - selling our house, leaving our careers, letting go of predictability - we understood that we were choosing uncertainty. We accepted the obvious trade-offs: fewer comforts, fewer guarantees, fewer explanations that fit neatly into polite conversation. What we did not fully grasp, at least not then, was how profoundly lonely this choice and the trail we set out on could be.

 

That realization has crept up on me slowly, kilometre by kilometre, day by day, and province by province...

Before the Trans Canada Trail, we were not strangers to long walks. Between us, we had already covered more than 2,000 kilometres on European long-distance trails and Camino routes as well as the Bruce Trail here at home.

 

Those journeys offered solitude, yes, but also something else: community. Pilgrimage routes are threaded with shared effort.  You meet people at breakfast, fall into step with strangers by mid-morning, and end the day trading stories in albergues and gîtes. 

You celebrate summits together, commiserate over brutal climbs, and mark endings collectively - whether standing at the edge of the world in Finisterre or collapsing into laughter over a beer after a punishing section of trail.  Those communal moments are not incidental. They very much define the experience.  

 

The Trans Canada Trail is something else entirely.

 

The Road Less Travelled

 

On the TCT there is no moving caravan of walkers. No shared start dates. No collective sense of arrival. Once you leave a town, you are often on your for days at a time, moving through landscapes so vast they swallow perspective. Reflection and endurance replace camaraderie.

 

Silence becomes the dominant companion. Sometimes that solitude is extraordinary. Sometimes it is crushing.

 

I have always been acutely aware of how fortunate I am not to be walking alone. After more than 14,000 kilometres across this country, I am increasingly in awe of those who have chosen to shoulder this scale of distance entirely on their own. Dana Meise. Sarah Jackson. Mel Vogel. Dianne Whelan. Their journeys demand a depth of resolve I can scarcely comprehend.  In fact, I have often wondered if the isolation and toll that this trail takes on those trying to trek it is why Mel found Malo. 

 

I don’t know where I would find the energy to keep going when exhaustion strips everything down to its barest elements. I don’t know how I would summon emotional steadiness on days when doubt presses in from all sides. I don’t know how I would face some of the challenges we have encountered without someone beside me who listens, steadies, and - when necessary - carries more than his share of the load.

 

The Emotional Toll of Long Distance Trekking

 

I am not trying to complain, I don’t think that being tired, or having emotional days is a weakness. It is honesty about what trail life can be like and often is.

 

When we set out, we willingly accepted the physical hardships. We knew there would be long days, weeks of damp gear that never quite dries, cold mornings when warmth never cuts through the chill, and stretches without proper rest or privacy or cleanliness. We accepted those sacrifices as part of the bargain.

 

What I did not expect was the emotional toll of being misunderstood, or worse, diminished.

The people we have met along the Trans Canada Trail have offered us immense kindness, generosity, and support. Those moments far outweigh the negative. And yet, the critiques linger longer than they deserve to. Emails telling us we are doing it wrong. Accusations that we complain too much, and critique all that we do or share.  Messages that we are not “hardcore” enough. Not wild enough. Not fast enough. Not Canadian enough.

 

Somehow, over time, it became clear that we were expected to be everything at once: elite thru-hikers, inspirational birders, tireless ambassadors, and silent stoics. We are none of those things completely. We are simply people walking a very long way, doing the best we can, learning as we go, and sharing what we can.

The loneliest moments often arrive not in the wilderness, but in that space between effort and reception - when lived experience is met with judgment rather than curiosity.

 

And still, we walk on.

 

A Grounded Life

 

Because for all of that, there is something profoundly grounding in this life. There is clarity in stripping away excess, in learning what you truly need and allowing yourself the grace to choose comfort where it matters. As a pilgrim friend of ours once wrote to me, “quality of trail life matters. Enjoyment matters. Carrying a little extra weight - physical or emotional - can sometimes be the difference between complete collapse and the strength to carry on.”

This path is not travelled less because it lacks value. It is travelled less because it asks for more than many people realize. Not just strength, but vulnerability. Not just resilience, but acceptance.  Not just courage to begin, but courage to continue when the shine wears thin, when your legs hurt and you want to cry.

 

I say all of this knowing that I have not walked alone. And perhaps that is the most important truth I can offer.  Sometimes just continuing at all requires more than physical endurance, and that may be the hardest part about stepping onto the trail. 

 

See you on the Trail.