I Survived the Florida Trail and Found My Purpose as a Black Neurodivergent Backpacker

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In January 2023, I set out on an epic venture to be the first known Black person to thru-hike the 1,500-mile Florida Trail. What started as a mission to be the first quickly became a transformational journey to change the narrative of what it means to be an explorer of the great outdoors. Transversing Florida via swamps, roads, and trails through Big Cypress National Preserve to Fort Pickens at the Gulf Islands National Seashore in Pensacola Beach was no easy feat, but the impact was worth every step. These are my reflections in looking back at my journey.

I sat quietly outside my tent, gazing into the partially illuminated sky. It wasn't dark, but it wasn't quite sunlit either. Seated, I contemplated taking down my tent and packing my gear to get an early start. But I quickly realized there was no need to rush.

I'm living with a nonfatal rare brain disease. My body thinks and acts like I have a brain tumor, although I don't. Nearly a decade prior, I was implanted with a neuromodulator medical device — an electrical system that redirects the message that there's a tumor present. It's a rather complex system that involves a lot of planning, because the two batteries that power the neuromodulator require weekly charging with an external charger.

My trail stops were prearranged to align with my recharge schedule, as I had to bounce my recharge system into a resupply box. Unlike other backpackers who can freely bypass trail towns, opting to continue their trek, I could not. If I went to town too soon, I'd have to pay for a hotel and wait for the package containing my recharge system to arrive. If I arrived too late on Saturday or Sunday, the post office holding my recharge system would be closed. I either needed to pay for lodging or seek assistance from a stranger in town. Thankfully, two days prior, I stopped in town for a day and a half to rest and recharge my neurological implant.

With no real sense of urgency, I waited for the sun to rise. The rising sun opened on the horizon with golden petals reaching outward into the midnight-blue sky. The sky's colorful blossom was a warm welcome, preparing me for the new day. Surviving a grueling road walk in the sweltering Florida heat while wearing a 25-pound backpack is a test of mental, emotional, and physical strength.

Giving thanks to Mother Nature and Father Time, I began to break down my campsite once the sun rose to start my trek through the Bradwell Bay Wilderness. The wilderness of Bradwell Bay is a perilous place that delves into the darkest crevices of the Florida Trail. The 12.3-mile section was by far the most rewarding, yet the most challenging. As I walked through the marsh-rich titi trees, my blood sugar plummeted. I needed to eat.

In addition to living with a rare brain disease, I also live with a rare condition that causes rapid drops in glucose levels. Unwilling to get my pack wet, I searched for a high place to rest and grab a snack. Generally, I carry food in a fanny pack for quick access. However, the trek through chest-high water caused the bag to fill with swamp water, turning everything inside into mush.

I had to act immediately; my entire body began to shake, and I felt as if I'd passed out. I played various scenarios in my mind: me passing out in the water, with the weight of my backpack pulling me toward the earth settled at the bottom of the swamp. With no high ground to sit on, I searched the swampland for anything viable. From the distance, I saw several tiki trees and headed toward them. The shakiness caused me to stumble downward into the water. I was afraid for the first time in all my hiking years. I was not nor will I ever be fearful of Nature. I was scared that I would become ill and die in the wilderness alone. I feared the hurt and pain I'd inflict on my parents if they didn't know what happened to me. I contemplated ending my thru-hike attempt and going home.

I remembered my earlier thinking just as I fell face-first into the swampland. I made all attempts to stand back up. With the quicksand-like grit, each step brought me farther down. I was acutely aware that my life began in water, and ultimately, in death, I would return to the same life force. Nature does what she wants, so I didn't fight. Face downward, arms extended, I swam toward the trees. As luck would have it, the first tree wasn't strong enough to hold me, and the second tree was too slippery; in a modern retelling of "The Three Little Pigs," the third option supported my weight and was most straightforward to climb. If a road was nearby, I would follow it to safety.

Instead, I perched my pack on a branch and quickly grabbed a protein bar. From that vantage point, all I could see was murky water. As my glucose levels rebounded, I looked out again in awe and saw the beauty in the trees reflected in the slow-moving water. Trees that grow in wetlands are mighty. I nestled my head in a crook in the tree and rested. I remained still and quietly observed Nature's glory until a therapy reminder alarm blared. At that moment, everything was still. I took this as an invitation to pass through safely.

As a Black woman trekking the wilderness solo and as a person with a mental health condition, therapy is crucial. My weekly sessions are an act of self-love, self-preservation, and a necessity. I channeled the spirit of Harriet Tubman, a Black woman who hiked numerous miles to ensure the freedom of Black enslaved Americans. After all, I view my own life's mission as similar to Tubman's: to use the power of the land so that all people will know peace. Nature is the ultimate unifier, the giver and sustainer of life.

I reached even ground with enough time to dry my belongings on the earth, snack, and regulate before the appointment. The session reaffirmed my mission and reignited my passion for using my intersecting identities — a Black lesbian with a disability — to get more historically excluded folks outdoors in Nature. After the therapy session, I changed out of my wet clothes, set up camp, and rested. A couple of hours later, I met two other LGBTQIA+ hikers, Matthew and Sunshine.

Organically, we created a family. For the first time in my years of solo backpacking, I became part of a whole. The three of us connected east of the Florida panhandle region, nearing the halfway point of my trek. We pushed one another throughout the remainder of the trip. Those beautiful humans served as anchors to hold me down and prevent me from slipping away at the time when I needed support the most. The Florida Trail could best be described as a series of trials and tribulations sprinkled with joy and small blessings. Matthew and Sunshine, both blessings, taught me the importance of community and belonging. The Florida Trail was a microcosm of my mission in life: to get historically underrepresented people outdoors and in love with Nature.

Since 2018, I have pursued that mission through my thru-hikes and writing about them. In 2020, I started the Footprints For Change movement to further my mission. After the Florida Trail in 2023, I decided to extend how I practiced my mission by becoming a teacher. In the fall of that same year, I was able to take the lessons of community and belonging into a new position as a forest-school teacher. I was able to utilize the natural world as a classroom, a place for curiosity, to learn, grow, and coexist in Nature.

The most profound realization was witnessing my mission come to fruition in a young Black girl, Maya. I shared with Maya my firsthand accounts of exploring the natural world and writing about my experiences. I taught Maya the importance of telling her story to others and how powerful those stories are, especially to those who look like you. She now wants to be the first Black person to hike in every national park in the USA by the time she turns 30. Maya journeyed to her first national park this summer and shared a poem she wrote for me:

Image Source: Rayna Bishu

Maya's reflection reminds me that people can push past discomfort when they feel seen, safe, supported, and represented. Nature brought Matthew, Sunshine, and me together. And our shared love for humanity, Nature, and each other sparked a match in me that ignited a flame within Maya.

I think of the impact every single day that I, a Black, disabled lesbian living with mental and physical health conditions, could be a living example and help others see their potential, and all I can do is smile.

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Crystal Gail Welcome is a hiker, activist, lifelong educator, author, poet, and lover of Nature. Her writing centers around her intersecting identities — Black, lesbian, disabled, and backpacker — and aims to shift the narrative of who belongs in outdoor spaces.