Personal Blogs

"We do not need to explain these long walks to everyone...those who have walked understand: the trail changes you. And once it does, the walk never truly ends."

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It's Time For the Pilgrimage 

There is a mystery to long walks in the world’s grand places. Across continents and cultures, from the dusty paths of the Camino de Santiago to the granite trails of the West Highland Way, Klipspringer Hiking Trail the, Yosemite Grand Travers, the wind-carved coastlines of Norway or Italy and Austria's Alpine regions people set off, boots laced, and packs loaded, with a longing that’s difficult to articulate. It’s more than tourism. More than exercise. The terrain speaks to something deeper. Something ancient.

What drives us to take these long, solitary walks? Why are so many drawn to leave behind the comforts of modern life to trek through mountains, deserts, moorlands, and forests—sometimes for days or even weeks at a time?

The Call of the Wild Places

The natural world has always been the setting for spiritual encounters. Moses met God on a mountain. Jesus fasted in a wilderness. The early Celtic saints sought the thin places—those wild spaces where the veil between heaven and earth seemed worn, transparent. There’s something about vastness and silence that awakens the soul.

When we step into these grand landscapes, we enter a different rhythm. The chatter of daily life falls away, replaced by the whisper of wind through grass, the cry of a bird overhead, the distant rush of water. Walking becomes a kind of prayer—each step a word, each mile a verse in a slow, unfolding psalm.

In such places, God seems nearer, not because He is more present there, but because we are. Our minds settle. Our eyes open. We begin to see not just creation, but the Creator’s imprint on every rock and tree and changing sky.

Stripping Away What Doesn't Matter

Long-distance walking has a humbling effect. It pares life down to essentials: water, rest, food, warmth. We learn the cost of carrying too much, both literally and figuratively. There is a discipline in choosing what to leave behind. In this simplicity, we begin to notice how cluttered our lives have become—how many of our worries are unnecessary, how much noise we live with.

In the walking, we begin to shed more than weight. We shed the versions of ourselves we’ve been holding tightly to: the competent professional, the overachiever, the person always in control. On the trail, we become something more elemental. Human, vulnerable, dependent.

The journey becomes a mirror. With no screens to distract, no tasks to complete, we’re left with ourselves. And it is in this solitude—sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes liberating—that many begin to face long-buried thoughts or griefs. Walking through wildness often becomes a form of healing, because the path doesn’t ask for eloquence or perfection—only honesty and movement.

On Meeting Strangers

Though many set out alone, the trail has a way of bringing people together. There’s something deeply human in meeting someone at a trail marker, sharing a flask of coffee, comparing blisters and stories. These encounters are rarely shallow. Perhaps it’s the shared vulnerability of the walk that opens people up. The miles invite reflection, and reflection seeks expression.

In these fleeting friendships—formed over shared hardship, under starry skies or in stormy weather—we’re reminded of a truth: that life, like the trail, is meant to be walked together, at least in part. There's no need for small talk when both people are tired, sore, and staring into the same majestic landscape. Conversation moves quickly to things that matter.

Finding the Self You Lost

The great paradox of pilgrimage is that it often begins with a desire to escape but ends in rediscovery. We go to get away from the demands and routines of life, but in doing so we encounter a version of ourselves we had forgotten.

Out in the open, stripped of pretence, we meet the child who once loved stars, the soul who still dreams, the person who prays not in words but in wonder. Somewhere between the first mile and the final descent, we recover what the noise and pace of life had eroded: a sense of direction, of calling, of hope.

The road does not give answers easily. But it shapes us. It teaches patience. It demands perseverance. It opens the door to awe. And awe, I believe, is the beginning of wisdom.

The Ongoing Journey

There’s a reason why, after the walk is done, so many return home changed. Not always in ways visible to others—but changed, nonetheless. They carry in their memory the scent of pine, the shimmer of dawn mist, the silence of ridgelines, the sound of their own heartbeat in remote places. They carry a renewed sense that life is not just a list of obligations, but a path.

The world’s grand places—its mountain paths and coastal ways, its desert trails and forest roads—call us not just to see beauty, but to remember what it means to be human. To walk with purpose. To endure with grace. To feel small and yet known.

We do not need to explain these long walks to everyone. Some things are better understood with the feet than with the tongue. But those who have walked understand: the trail changes you. And once it does, the walk never truly ends.

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A memorable encounter on a quiet pathway never forgotten

They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us as He spoke with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” 

Luke 14 (BSB).