Going the Distance

Here’s an update on the progress of my Ice Age Trail hike: I have currently trekked 626.2 miles with only 496.7 to go! The miles are starting to fly by. This weekend I’ll be driving another 200+ miles across the state just to tack on a few more.

Speaking of going the distance – lets talk about the Cubs…

(see what I did there? practically a seamless transition!)

It’s time to tell you a little bit about why I watched the Cubs these past few weeks. 

(me = someone who doesn’t typically pay attention to professional sports)

I am one of those people who are mostly indifferent during regular seasons. I will watch playoffs and championship football games if required in order to interact with friends (but it is not my first choice of activities). I rarely watch any games on television and I never listen to them on the radio. There are too many other things I’d rather be doing than watch sports.

When asked about my favorite professional football, hockey and basketball teams, I simply don’t have an answer.

However, if anyone asks about baseball, it has always been the Chicago Cubs.

I grew up in East Central Wisconsin, in Neenah to be exact, where almost everyone I know is a Brewers fan (including my dad). And yet, my brother Jon and I grew up cheering for the Cubs.

I recently asked how that came to be and Jon attributes it to WGN (of course, it also helped that our mom is from Illinois and took him to his first baseball game at Wrigley Field, and I, throughout my youth, idolized my brother and his interests).

It’s funny because until he associated it with the Cubs, I always remembered WGN as the The Bozo Show channel, where kids would throw ping-pong balls into numbered buckets for prizes at the prompting of Bozo the Clown (for the record, now when I see images of bozo and his sidekick "cooky," it scares the crap out of me). The kids were average – dressed in scout uniforms or play clothes. They had bad hair and scraped knees and lisps and big glasses. They were just like me (not like the people we typically see on television). I always cheered for them to win the grand prize and dreamt about what I’d do with the money (usually around $20). Incidentally, the only other show I remember watching as zealously as The Bozo Show throughout my youth is the Price Is Right. I would bid on the Showcase Showdown as if I was actually playing (tell me I am not the only one who did that).

My brother used to come home from school and watch the Cubs on WGN. They didn’t have night games in Chicago, because the stadium didn’t have lights back then (that was quite the controversy when that finally happened – I was only 12 at the time but I remember the drama).

Jon collected their baseball cards, wore the jersey, and knew all the stats of all the players. I know them because of him: Rick Sutcliffe, Andre Dawson, Jody Davis.

My brother recalls the first time he went to Wrigley Field. He kept his ticket as a keepsake. I, on the other hand, don’t remember specific games. To me, Wrigley Field and the Cubs were simply a part of our collective family history. We used to go to one game every summer during our annual Chicago vacation.

I remember the ballpark with the big red sign. 
It smelled of fresh popcorn and beer.

I can still hear the sound of Harry Caray’s voice calling out plays.

Back then he was as famous to me as a movie star. 

I had a crush on Ryne Sandberg. 

He hit a homerun every time I was at Wrigley Field 

(of course he did it for me). 

FYI - When the camera scanned the crowd at Game 4 of the World Series, I knew it was him before they ever said his name.

Having a crush on a baseball player I never met may sound silly, but this weekend as I listened to my 13-year-old niece talk about Kris Bryant and Anthony Rizzo, I was reminded of middle-school me.

Our yearly Chicago trips involved iconic destinations like the Shedd Aquarium and Museum of Science and Industry. I stared in slack-jaw wonder at the towering downtown buildings from the backseat of our two-toned station wagon. We ate hot dogs and pizza and soaked in Chicago like the tourists we were.

As our childhoods faded and that dreadful thing called “adulting” happened, the family trips to the Windy City ceased and my knowledge of the Cubs disappeared. I no longer had Jon educating me on the stats. Instead I had books to read, movies to watch, trails to hike and friends to hang out with. My ears perked up when the Chicago Cubs were referenced and I kept tabs on how the seasons ended (typically not very well).

I rooted for Sammy Sosa in the late 90’s when he went head-to-head against Mark McGwire in a race for the home-run record (and I believe Sammy when he says the drug accusations are false).

Sadly, in 2003, I watched when Steve Bartman and a dozen other fans interfered with the infamous foul ball.

And ten years ago, I lived with a friend whose love for the Cubs paralleled my brother’s. So for a short time I was transported back to my youth – wrapped in the excitement, anxiety, hope and disappointment that comes with being a Cubs fan. We named one of our pet frogs Mark Prior (in unrelated news, the frog died within 48 hours of bringing him home).

The past several weeks I have been swimming in nostalgia as I have screamed and jumped and cheered and paced and bitten all of my finger nails.

Sitting by myself on my couch on Wednesday night, I felt like I was surrounded by family when they announced the Chicago Cubs won. (for real, I don't think any cub fan could possibly feel alone in that moment.)

Thank you for going the distance this year and taking me back to my childhood. I will always cherish these moments.

Hiking and Depression

I know this is a blog about hiking, but really, it’s about me. And to talk about me means talking about one of the biggest challenges in my life: depression (I know how much everyone loves hearing about sadness…I guess I could always talk about the upcoming election instead, but I just have depression, I don’t hate myself.)

Let me also take a moment to note that the irony of identifying as "Amy, the Happy Hiker" is not lost on me.

I thought I’d share some self-portraits to help people recognize what it looks like when I’m depressed (please note, I forgot to draw my glasses, so the drawings may not be accurate):

Yeah, so sometimes I can appear just fine. Outwardly, I can be smiling or joking or hiking or contemplative, but the thing is, internally there’s a numbness, an irrational fear that life will always be a struggle. My motivation wanes and my soul aches and it takes everything within my power to get out of bed.

I’ve been battling depression on and off for 15 years. I have a very clear memory of my first bout because I was consumed with inconsolable despair and I remember the desperation and hopelessness. Now, when I recall that time it’s like I’m watching it happen to someone else. I can’t imagine ever feeling so lost again (even now when I’m not exactly little miss sunshine).

I attribute this to my friends (I have the most awesome friends), family (I have an incredibly supportive family) and faith (I am loved beyond measure). Not to mention, over the past several years I have also developed an arsenal of tools for when I feel the darkness settling in: art, therapy, a sun lamp, medication, meditation, watching episodes of “Parks and Rec,” and of course hiking.

The most frustrating part is knowing that I can’t just make everything instantly better. I promise you, if I could eliminate depression I would. It hurts when people tell me to “snap out of it” or “cheer up” as if it’s a switch I can flip or a choice I’m making. I know it’s confusing, because I can feel absolutely fine for days, weeks, even months, and then suddenly I’m not.

When you think about me having depression, don’t think of it as a choice I’ve made to be sad, instead think of the choice I’ve made to fight to get better instead of giving up.

I began hiking in the spring of 2015 for a myriad of reasons. One was because winter was fading, but my seasonal affective disorder was not (side note: SAD has to be one of the cruelest acronyms for a mental illness). 

I wanted to find a way to get fresh air, explore the state, see beautiful things, get inspired and feel better about myself.

Hiking is an incredible resource for all of these things.

I started by visiting state parks, forests and trails. I’ve been to quite a few (83 out of 108 in Wisconsin).

For a while I combined my exploration with my joy for writing and created articles for my (now former) employer regarding the best scenic places to visit in each county. Unfortunately, after I left, my former boss told me “they’d rather go in a different direction” than allow me to freelance for their website (…it's possible they were not happy about my resignation…).

While working on these articles I explored the counties first-hand and wrote about the places I saw, photographed beautiful scenery, and loved every minute of it. During my exploration of Sauk County, I started to learn about the Ice Age National Scenic Trail.

Granted, I’d heard about it before, but this was when the interest first sparked a light in me. A trail that wound through some of the most scenic, beautiful places in the state? Tell me more!

Even though the idea of hiking over 1,000 miles sounded daunting, that spark happened. It was a tiny flame of motivation.

After a long dreary winter of sadness, any spark is a good spark. While it may have looked like a mere flicker of interest, it felt like a freakin’ blow torch.

I researched the trail more and a plan began to form. I could do this. Like, for real. And now I am.

It’s been 17 months and I’m still hiking during every available opportunity.

I make notes of places to revisit when I’m done and have a list of ideas for when friends ask.

Hiking the trail is challenging and rewarding and frustrating and exhausting, and most importantly it gets me out of bed whether I want to or not.

This adventure has turned out to be one of the best things for me (just ignore my whines about hills and wind and rain and bugs).

Of course, my depression continues to ebb and flow. How annoying, right? But it’s manageable. I’m not disparaging or hopeless.

I’m hanging in there and I continue to make the choice to fight it (albeit one step at a time) instead of giving up.

P.S. I wonder if anyone at work will wonder what happened to all the yellow post-it notes...

Family First

Fall is my favorite season to hike. The warmth of hiking offsets the crisp coolness of the air. The bright colored trees are mesmerizing. There are fewer mosquitoes, little humidity, more deer and wildlife. I even love the smell of fallen leaves and the sound of the crunch beneath my feet.

From the last weekend of September to the third weekend in October, I plan out my weekend hiking trips with zealous detail. I map out the exact locations to maximize the changing seasons in the best weather. I actually already have several itineraries mapped out to explore various parts of the state that should be aglow in fall foliage. 

Last year at this same time, I hiked over 50 miles of the Ice Age Trail and I’ve been thinking of little else in the early weeks of September as I’ve prepared for my autumnal outings. One weekend last year, I rented a cabin in the Northwoods and explored some of the most colorful vistas I’ve ever seen in the state.

But this past weekend, plans changed. Rather suddenly. My dad got sick and had to have surgery. Instead of hiking I spent the day in the hospital trying to make him laugh, while meeting with doctors and nurses and learning about recovery times and risks.

I couldn’t picture myself being anywhere else.

As I look over my itineraries for the next several weekends, they don’t have the same appeal and joy. My dad is going to make a full recovery and he came home from the hospital a few days ago, but he still has four weeks of recovery. How can I drive around the state hiking, when my parents need groceries and have laundry and need help getting things done?

There will be other years to do autumn hikes.

This year there is somewhere else I’d rather be.

"Hummock" is Actually a Four-Letter Word

Prior to hiking the Ice Age Trail, I had never heard of the word “hummock.” Now I read the phrase practically every week. “Hummocky” is the word most often used to describe segments of the Ice Age Trail, especially in the northern segments.

At first I thought a hummock was a type of tree so in my imagination a hummocky trail was one surrounded by a bunch of very specific types of trees. Granted this wasn’t something I put much thought into and I certainly didn’t research.

Now that I’ve experienced numerous hummocky trails I finally looked up the definition and I can tell you that it has nothing to do with trees. 

If you ask me for the definition of hummock, I’d say “another f-ing hill.” If you ask Merriam-Webster, it’s “a small knoll or mound; a rounded knoll.”  

In learning the definition of a hummock, I also tried to find out how they were created. This was like trying to learn a foreign language.

“Glacial hummocks in Wisconsin are stagnant-ice features composed of melt-out till, meltwater-stream sediment, and flow till.”

Huh?

I did learn that hummocks are generally less than 50 feet high and when mapping out a hike the small hills seem innocuous. It’s just a few baby hills, how hard can it be?

However, experience has taught me that a few miles down the trail, they can be taunting and menacing for a shorty like me. My knees begin creaking and my toes ache. Even the downhills are distressing because I know once I get to the bottom, I’m just going to have to hike upward again. 

The cumulative elevation gain at the end of a few miles can be over 1,000 feet. That’s the same elevation gain of hiking to the top of both the East and West Bluffs at Devil’s Lake State Park.

Here’s an elevation guide to the last hummocky trail I hiked.


Underdown Segment - Ice Age Trail

When I returned home from this hike my sock was red. Apparently hiking down all those “little hills” created enough friction on my toes to remove my skin.

As I’ve been focusing my hikes in Northern Wisconsin, I’ve cringed at the trail descriptions:

“…the segment continues southward through rolling, hummocky glacial topography in a mix of hardwood forest.”

“This segment traverses dramatic high-relief hummocky terrain with numerous scenic kettle lakes.”

“…experience a dramatic high-relief hummocky topography through a mix of conifers and hardwoods…”

“Glacial debris remnants in the form of hummocks separate deep kettles.”


I suspect they use the word hummocky to try to fool people like me who didn’t know what it meant. 

I guess it’s a good thing I’m not writing the trail descriptions: “Glacial debris remnants in the form of multiple f-ing hills separate deep kettles…”

Goal Setting

I am a goal setter.

Some are long-term: I will go on a hot air balloon ride before I die.
Some are short-term: I will not buy cookies at the grocery store today.
Some of my goals are meaningful: I will mail (not just email) letters to people I love, just because.
Some are vital to my mental health: I will start writing again.
Some of my goals are more challenging than they first appear: I will get out of bed this morning.

My goals are sometimes just in my head, but typically I like to write them down as often as possible so I have the satisfaction of crossing them off my list. Goal Accomplished – check!

Whenever I achieve one of my goals and either mentally or physically check it off the list, I get a boost of pride and sense of accomplishment. I have a silent mini-celebration in my head, which adds a little pep to my step or smile of satisfaction on my face.

Way to go, Amy. You cleaned your bathroom this weekend. Woot.

Of course, I don’t always achieve my goals. Sometimes I do buy cookies when I go to the store. I have stayed in bed all day due to depression.

Notice I haven’t mentioned my weight loss goals…it’s not because I haven’t set any.

Hiking the Ice Age Trail is my biggest goal to date -- 1,121 miles on foot. This is a five-year goal and I’m on year two. I often question why I’m doing this or if I’ll ever finish.

From doorstep to doorstep, my brother lives exactly 254 miles from me in a suburb of St. Paul. If I were to hike the same distance as the Ice Age Trail, I could walk back and forth from his house 2.25 times. This seems absolutely ludicrous to me. And yet every weekend I grab my trekking poles and hiking boots and head out for the trail, checking off part of my goal one mile at a time.

I think I set this goal to give me a temporary sense of purpose. I was floundering the past few years and feeling directionless. What better way to find my way then hike one of the national scenic trails?

Now I have mini-celebrations every weekend. I’m able to have a sense of accomplishment every time I color in another segment of my map with yellow, or go to my spreadsheet and add a few more miles to the “total distance hiked” column.

In addition to my weekend goals I have distance goals like hiking 225 miles per year (I’ve already hiked more than 300 this year I say with a smile on my face and great sense of pride).

This past weekend I logged my 561st mile, which means I've hiked HALF of the trail. This was cause for a lot of singing in my car on my way home. 

Halfway there!

Of course, since then I realized the Ice Age Alliance has made a few additions/changes over the past year so the total length of the trail is now: 1122.9 miles.

Adding 1.9 miles to the overall length isn't much of a whoop-dee-do when you have over 560 miles to go, however, this means that my halfway done celebration was a little premature. doh!

I guess if I'm going to think deeply about this, the lesson learned is that it's okay when goals change and there are some things may take a little longer than anticipated.

However, if I'm not going to think too deeply about this, it simply means I'll have another excuse to celebrate a distance goal this weekend when I reach the new halfway. :-)

A Lesson about the Kettle Moraine

This winter I was whining to my dad that I didn’t think I’d ever finish hiking the Ice Age Trail. I had over 800 miles to go and the task was too daunting. It doesn’t help that I despise winter and would hibernate if I could, so everything seems unsurmountable in January.

My dad is one my biggest cheerleaders. The poor guy has to listen to me whine about everything from house repairs to aching muscles to my favorite character getting killed off in a movie. Basically, I’m lucky that I’m the youngest and only daughter. When he’s not rolling his eyes at me, he reminds me that I’m capable of accomplishing a lot more than I think I can.

He suggested instead of looking at the overall trail, I should think of what I want to accomplish this year. So I decided one of my 2016 goals was to complete the trail through the Kettle Moraine region. At the time I assumed the Kettle Moraine was some sort of feature that only existed within the Kettle Moraine State Forest (there are 6 units of the forest in southeast Wisconsin), but the more I’ve hiked in eastern Wisconsin the more I learned the Kettle Moraine extends far beyond the State Forest’s boundaries. As a matter it goes through at least seven counties from Walworth in the south to Kewaunee in the northeast. 

If you don’t really care how the Kettle Moraine came to be, feel free to skip ahead (it’s not like I’d ever know). 

From what I’ve gathered (although I could be wrong), the Kettle Moraine’s origin story started when He Who Must Not be Named killed a young Muggle-born mother protecting her infant son and a lightning shaped scar appeared on the baby’s forehead…okay, so that’s the origin story of Harry Potter. You got me. 

In actuality, the Kettle Moraine was created around 15,000 years ago when two glacial lobes (think massive fingers of ice stretching south) bumped into each other. They left behind a bunch of dirt and rocks that formed an uneven, clumpy ridge (called a “moraine”). When the lobes ran into each other, chunks of ice (unbelievably huge chunks – larger than an iceberg) sometimes broke off and got buried beneath all the dirt that the massive ice fingers were pushing around. When the glaciers receded and the ice melted, large holes were formed (many, but not all, filled with water) which are called kettles or kettle lakes. 

So there you have it: The Kettle Moraine – a very long, very hilly stretch of land with over one hundred miles of the Ice Age Trail for hikers like me to climb up, then down, then up, then down, then up… 

In the past year, I’ve hiked from the southernmost point in Walworth County to the Lower Cato Falls County Park in Manitowoc County, which totals about 167 miles. I’ve hiked through all of the state forest segments and am on my way to Kewaunee.

The topography throughout the Kettle Moraine is challenging (I’m the crazy hiker on the trail muttering to myself about stupid hills), but the views are spectacular. Just take a look at some of the beauty I’ve seen…

I’ve hiked an additional 300 miles since I complained to my dad about the impossibility of me trying to complete this task. I’m a lot more confident now that I’ll actually finish (only 570 miles to go!).

I’m just taking it one hill at a time.

Overcoming Obstacles

I wish I could come up with a really clever metaphor for life, but instead I’m going to use a cliché: Life, like hiking, has unexpected obstacles and detours. Even using maps, I’ve gotten lost, misread a visual cue, or had to backtrack several miles.

Over the past 15 months, I’ve tripped over roots, slid down the side of a cliff, crossed swirling rivers using fallen logs, plucked over 30 ticks from my legs at one time, and got stuck up to my waist in a snowdrift. I’ve cursed and screamed at my surroundings in frustration. Hiking shouldn’t be this hard!

That time I was stuck in the snowdrift was on a trail that bisected a farm field near Coloma. I was exhausted, wet, and irate. After hiking 5 miles through wintery conditions I wasn’t prepared for, the road home was less than 10 feet away and I was stuck. I raised my arms to the sky, angry tears streaming down my face with my hands clenched in fists around my trekking pole, and bellowed “I am a f@%#ing GODDESS!” My primal yell bounced around the countryside as an echo, and when the sound of my voice finally faded, it was answered by the deep, resounding moo of a neighboring cow. I started laughing, pulled and pushed my way out of the drift and eventually plowed through the remaining 10 feet of snow to the road.

When overwhelmed by my surroundings, I forget that I’m stronger than I think.

Over these same 15 months of hiking my mother became seriously ill, I’ve changed jobs, battled depression and anxiety, developed a binge-eating disorder, worked through two rotator cuff injuries, avoided friends and church and writing and anything else important to me. I essentially spent months screaming and cursing at my surroundings in frustration. Life shouldn’t be this hard!

But then I remembered. I remembered the landscape has always been challenging; life was never promised to be easy. And I’m stronger than I think.

I began this 1,121-mile mission to accomplish something that not everyone can or will do. This hike was an opportunity for me to be active, get outdoors, explore the state, and alleviate stress.

(Of course, in retrospect “alleviating stress” seems kind of paradoxical.)

To date, I’ve logged more than 500 miles on the Ice Age Trail. Despite all the obstacles, it’s been worth it.

I have hiked through golden forests raining leaves,



walked through open fields filled with thousands of happy flowers,

chatted with sandhill cranes looking for company,



been awed by the delicate beauty of nature,




and experienced moments of incredible pride. I feel stronger every day.



This hike, along with my life, isn’t going to be easy. But I’m stronger than I think. I will keep moving forward.

Otherwise I’ll just be stuck screaming my head off at a bunch of cows.