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Why I Hike.
Michelle Duffourc • Apr 25, 2024
NOLI instructor Michelle Duffourc shares some thoughts on why hiking and backpacking are so special and how they have shaped her life. There's more to it than you might think.
PeopIe are often curious when they learn I backpack. “I hear it’s pretty there.” “I bet that’s good exercise.” “Isn’t it hard?" "Aren’t you afraid?” “Don’t you ever get bored?” All of these are valid questions whose underlying purpose is to ask … “Why do you hike?” And while the answers to these questions can be pretty straight-forward (incredibly pretty; yes, indeed; sometimes; not really) they are, well, flat, and don’t truly capture the essence of what hiking means to me. The reasons I hike are better summed up as a series of memories, feelings and experiences that have been stamped upon my life and changed it for the better.
- I am climbing on the Appalachian Trail (AT) northbound out of Bradley Gap towards Hump Mountain. While some people may find this climb easy, I am NOT one of them. I hear my heart beating in my ears and my breathing is heavy as I ascend the ~600 feet in the 0.8 mile separating the two points. I look up (UP being the operative word) and see, yes - the fence! That means I’ve already passed the false summits and am near the top. And as I crest the summit, I am surrounded by the grassy bald, the sun warm on my back, the cool breeze blowing in my hair, beneath a dome of cobalt blue sky. Greeting me is the panoramic 360-degree view stretching to Grandfather Mountain, more than 20 miles away to the east. My husband has told me that when he stands in this place of wondrous beauty, the chorus of the song “Hallelujah” from the movie Shrek comes to his mind. I understand why – I am here, in this moment and it is bliss. I hike for the sense of reverence I experience in places which cannot be reached any other way.
- I am with a small group of students splashing in the pool at the base of Rock Creek Falls. I have taken other groups here and it is always the same reaction. Medical students, PhD students, scientists – serious people with serious jobs. We arrive and people spread out to enjoy the features of this box canyon with a double waterfall hidden in the wilderness. I teach people how to skip stones across the small pool while others wade in to cool off on a hot day. A student calls out “Hey, Dr. Michelle, I see a crawfish!” and we scurry over to watch Mr. Crawfish crawling around the rocks in a deeper part of the pool. We squeal (myself probably the loudest) when Mr. Crawfish darts backward with lightning speed to position himself under a rock, ready to ambush any insect that comes his way. By the time we are ready to head back everyone is grinning from ear-to-ear and I take photos so they can share their memories of a good day. I hike for the child-like sense of joy that comes from playing in nature with good friends.
- I peer out of the opening blasted through the rock face and look upon the raw power that is Mooney Falls. At 200 feet, Mooney Falls is the highest of the waterfalls on Havasu Creek, located within the Havasupai Reservation just west of Grand Canyon National Park. The waters of Mooney plunge over orange cliffs into a pool so blue it doesn’t even seem real. Mist kicked up by the waterfall constantly sprays the rock face, rendering it cold and slippery. There is only one route to the base of this waterfall, and that is to climb down these rocks, clinging to chains and anchors drilled at strategic locations. Rough stairs and footholds have been cut into the surface but it is a near vertical climb of ~150 feet with no safety clips (search “Mooney Falls descent” on YouTube to appreciate). Most of my group have already descended, and only Sally remains with me, waiting patiently with no pressure. Falling is my big fear and I have to decide whether to listen to it, or trust in the training I did in preparation for this hike. I take a deep breath, swing my legs over the ledge and climb down to join the others in exploring the wonderland that is Havasu Canyon. I hike to push beyond the boundaries of my self-imposed limitations.
- My physician looks at my chart: “Hmm, 122/75 – your blood pressure is perfect.” My biometric scale indicates I have above average muscle and bone mass and thus am less likely to develop osteoporosis. At work I notice the water cooler is empty; I remove the empty bottle, grab a full one, and using my legs lift the 5-gallon bottle onto the cooler. It is only when I walk away do I realize that I just lifted 40 lbs with one hand without thinking. Lunch is at a restaurant a mile away; at this time of day it will take 15 minutes to drive there and parking is limited, so I decide to do the easy 2-mile round trip walk. When I first ambled onto a hiking trail 25 years ago I didn’t realize each step was an investment in my future health. I hike not only to improve my current health, but as a gift to my future self and more importantly, to my family.
- The last mile of the Sheltowee Trace National Recreation Trail is nearly flat and I enjoy the lovely stroll as I near my destination. There, up ahead, I see it – Burnt Mill Bridge with a giant banner proclaiming “CONGRATULATIONS END-TO-ENDER!” I begin to cry, because when I started this adventure I didn’t truly believe I had the grit and strength to complete the Hiker Challenge. And here I am, 12 sections and 343 miles later, about to finish. Across Kentucky, and into the Big South Fork of Tennessee, past waterfalls and over rock arches I walked. Through snow, rain, gasping heat and beautiful crystal-clear days to be here, now. But of course, I didn’t accomplish this feat alone. My friend, Minta and niece Julie, AT through-hikers both, embrace me as I cross the line with tears running down my face and welcome me to the sisterhood of female long-distance hikers. My husband, Rob and friend Jess, both of whom supported me through the challenge, are also here to celebrate this life-changing accomplishment. I hug Steve, the Director of the Sheltowee Trace Association, whose hard work makes the Challenge possible. Even on days when I walk by myself, many wonderful people, their kindness and support, are a part of me. I hike to be part of a nurturing community that helps the world be a better place, one trail and hiker at a time.
When I hike, I am thankful for the strength of my body, the beauty of this earth, and the embrace of the community that welcomed me with open arms. In short, I hike because I am grateful for every gift hiking has given me since I first set foot in the mountains I now call home. This summer I plan to hike with blue ghost fireflies, wild ponies and explore more of the Appalachian Trail, among other adventures. Please join me; I’d love to learn why you hike (or want to learn how to hike). Let’s discover a new adventure together.
Michelle Duffourc is a backpacking and hiking instructor at the Nolichucky Outdoor Learning Institute (NOLI) in Erwin, Tennessee. To join Michelle for an upcoming Backpacking Overnight Adventure along the Balds of Roan go to https://www.nolilearn.org/activity/backpacking-overnight-adventure--2-days. To see all upcoming classes and events go to https://www.nolilearn.org/backpacking-camping-hiking-classes.
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It was a nearly perfect morning on the Washington state Pacific coast. My wife (Michelle) and I had a delicious breakfast, broke down camp, loaded our rented tandem kayak, and paddled down the sheltered bay that bisects Stewart Island. Along with our guide, Annie, we ran with the tide and a light southwesterly breeze to make the three-mile open water crossing to Henry Island. As we crossed in the 2-foot swells, we were just cruising, enjoying the warmth of the sun, and gazing toward the horizon hoping for our first orca sighting of the trip. Once we passed west of the tip of Henry Island, we headed south a bit and our guide signaled that we would take a break in a field of bull kelp. Thickets of bull kelp make an ideal resting place for sea kayakers because the kelp floats, which are round and 3 to 8 inches across, protrude from the water and break up the momentum of the waves. We stopped for a few minutes, bobbing up and down with the swell, occasionally chatting but mostly taking sips from our water bottles. Over the sound of waves and calling birds, Michelle heard a distant noise. It sounded like a cry for help – or was it a gull? We listened for a few seconds when another, more distinct yell rang out. For an instant we all hesitated, trying to determine the direction of the cries. From our vantage point low to the water, all we could see was dark bull kelp floats scattered across the ocean’s surface. It sounded like the panicked calls were coming from somewhere between us and the shoreline, so we sprinted southeast through the kelp patch toward shore. After we broke through the offshore kelp forest, we spotted two small dark objects on the surface alongside something that looked like a partially submerged log. As the distance closed, the larger object resolved into a flooded green aluminum canoe. The smaller ones were two middle school age boys struggling to reenter the water-filled boat. Every time they tried to enter; the boat would flip. As we neared, they quit trying to enter their boat. Instead, they hung onto the hull of the now inverted canoe and stared quietly as we approached. Michelle and I coasted up on the right side, leaving about a 5-foot gap between our tandem and the canoe, just in case the boys panicked and tried to climb on the deck of our boat before we were prepared. Caution is necessary in a situation like this because a panicking victim can easily capsize a would-be rescuer’s boat - leaving more people in the water. Annie coasted up a similar distance on the left side of the flooded craft. Our first evaluation was that the boys had been in the water for at least fifteen minutes. They were shivering, minimally responsive, and their movements were clumsy. After quickly weighing the options and their condition, we agreed that we could get them out of the water and warm them up more quickly by towing them to shore than by attempting to get the boys back into their boat. We then instructed the closest victim to grab the left perimeter line behind the rear cockpit of our tandem. At first, he refused because he did not want to release the cell phone in his right hand. The impasse was broken when Annie slid her boat up on his left side and convinced him to hand the phone to her. The other boy was similarly coaxed to grab the left stern perimeter line of Annie’s boat. We then started toward shore in the direction of the nearest cottage. When we had closed to within 75 yards of the house, a man came out onto the shore, saw us towing the boys, launched a tandem sit on top kayak, and headed out toward us. The boys, who were shaking with cold, were handed life vests and then hauled aboard the sit on top kayak by their father, while we stabilized the boat. As the reunited family headed back toward shore, we recovered the flooded canoe and towed it to shore. After this brief but adrenaline-filled detour, we continued our journey southwards down the Haro Straight, skirting the shore of Henry Island.
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