Aliveness

“The goal of life … is not happiness, peace, or fulfillment, but aliveness.”
—Hubert Dreyfuss

Not long ago, a relative of mine through marriage was flummoxed by my plans. She couldn’t understand why I wanted to take a particular hike through a particular mountain range, in a particularly remote country I’d never been to.

I heard her comment secondhand, but the gist was: “Hasn’t Alison done enough already?”

Hmm.

The quick response might have been: No. I’m curious about this place and I want to walk through it. Mind your own business.

But with time to reflect, I realize her question holds layers.

The first layer is easy: Why take another hike when I’ve already taken so many?

But the second layer is less obvious and harder to answer: Wasn’t a life filled with adventures enough?

I’ve walked through some of the wildest places on Earth—from a lonely African escarpment under crystalline stars so close it felt like I could touch them, to weeks upon a massive glacier in Pakistan listening to it sing beneath me.

I’ve wandered through swamps, deserts, mountains, volcanoes, rivers, and snowfields. How do I explain that it’s all been both enough… and not enough?

Maybe her concern wasn’t just about excess. Maybe it was about danger. Yes, I’ve had my share—injuries, illness, a broken bone, altitude sickness, food poisoning, and all the accompanying boredom, fear, frustration and loneliness that inevitably arise on long walks.

Although I wouldn’t compare myself to the English mountaineer George Mallory, his famous answer when asked why he kept trying to climb Everest has always stuck with me, “Because it is there.”

Likewise we have Grandma Gatewood, the first woman to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail (who then went ahead and walked it twice more.) She answered a reporter hounding her for a justification by simply replying, “Because I want to.”

And while I’ve tracked my own milestones and trails conquered, accomplishment alone has never been my purpose. Like them, I hike because I’m curious. I want to experience these places slowly, deliberately, step by step. I want to be immersed, carrying all I need, living in rhythm with the landscape, accepting the beauty, the hardship, and everything in between.

That’s why as I prepare to walk 700 miles along Canada’s Great Divide Trail, I’ve packed this mantra:

You’re not hiking for records, for ego, or for others.
You’re hiking because you still can—and that’s everything.
Each step is a declaration: “My body is capable. My spirit is willing. I am still in motion.”
There may come a day when this kind of journey is no longer possible.
But that day is not today.
Today, you hike.

I go because I want to, and because I can. I go because life doesn’t end once you’ve done “enough.” It keeps unfolding and I intend to meet it with open eyes and sturdy shoes.

Let me share a story.

When I finished walking the Pacific Crest Trail, my husband Richard was waiting for me at the the iconic monument marking the trail’s southern terminus in Campo, California. 

As I sauntered up a small rise he applauded my achievement offering me a margarita to celebrate replete with fresh lime, decent tequila, and precious ice.

He’d meant for me to take atop the monument for my finisher photo. But as I approached, another man drove up and insisted on his own photo—immediately. He had not hiked the trail. He’d taken ten steps from his car. But still, he told me to step aside so his wife could photograph him.

I obliged and waited as she took shots from several angles of his <ahem> achievment. And when they finally left, I climbed up for my photo.

I think we can agree it was a bizarre and off-putting way to end that epic trail. But somehow it didn’t bother me. That man could have all the pictures he wanted. I had the experience. Nothing could take that away from me. 

And there was something about that moment, a small but potent reminder: finishing is satisfying, yes. But what matters more is that I was fully alive for every step.

That’s why I keep going. Not to check a box. Not to impress anyone. But to feel my life through motion, through challenge, and through the wild, fleeting gift of aliveness.