06/10/2026
It was only fitting today.
The lightning started first.
Then came the thunder and the rain.
Not the soft summer kind.
The kind that makes you stop what you’re doing and pay attention.
Thunder echoed across Lake Superior.
Rain hammered my windshield.
The sky flashed white every few seconds.
So I pulled over and took a break.
As I sat there watching the storm, an article about the Superior Hiking Trail anniversary popped up on my phone.
And instantly I thought of her, the lake, the storm and how life has these funny switchbacks.
I can’t remember her name.
But I remember her story.
And I remember exactly where she told it.
About ten years ago or so, a friend called me and excitedly exclaimed,
“You need to meet this young lady and hear her story. You’re going to love her!”
It was my day off, but a massive storm was brewing that day too, so my adventures were on hold.
So I did.
I drove up the shore and met her at the Grand Superior Lodge
We sat beside that massive stone fireplace.
Hot cocoa steamed from our mugs.
The fire crackled.
The scent of wet pine blew in every time someone opened the door.
Outside, Lake Superior was turning angry.
Inside, it felt like the safest and coziest place in the world.
And then she started telling me what she’d been doing.
She was hiking the entire Superior Hiking Trail.
Alone.
All Three hundred and ten miles plus some.
Not a weekend hike.
Not a few days in the woods.
Three hundred and ten miles of rugged terrain on the shores of the largest fresh water lake in the world.
By herself.
My friend was right. I was absolutely fascinated.
And her stories drew me in so completely that I felt like I was there beside her.
She told stories about waking up from wolves howling so close that it raised the hairs on her neck.
About finding fresh bear tracks in the mud.
About hearing animals moving through the brush at night when she couldn’t quite see what was making the noise.
She described standing on rocky overlooks above Lake Superior where the lake stretched all the way to the horizon and the world felt impossibly big.
Places so beautiful they almost hurt to look at.
She talked about rain-soaked campsites, aching muscles, endless climbs, and long stretches of trail where she wouldn’t see another person for days.
Most people hear those stories and think of reasons not to go.
She told them like reasons she loved it.
What struck me wasn’t that she was fearless.
It was that none of it seemed to bother her.
The wolves.
The bears.
The storms.
The solitude.
She talked about them the same way most people talk about a walk through the neighborhood.
Not reckless.
Prepared.
Confident.
Completely comfortable in places most people would never willingly spend a night.
She had started in Canada and reached the lodge to pick up a resupply package she had mailed to herself weeks earlier.
She repacked her large pack.
Charged her phone.
Checked her maps.
Called her dad.
I remember smiling when she talked about him.
He had helped plan the route once he knew he couldn’t talk her out of it.
Helped think through the logistics.
Helped build safety plans.
And every few days she’d call to let him know she was okay.
Back then I didn’t fully understand what that felt like.
Today I do.
Because every time my phone rings while I’m wandering the country, my own dad answers with relief hidden behind practical questions.
“Where are you now?”
“How’s the car running?”
The questions are different. The worry is the same.
Outside, the storm kept getting worse.
The wind howled around the lodge.
Rain lashed the windows.
The trees bent and twisted.
Even sitting inside, safe beside a roaring fire, it felt intimidating.
Finally I asked the question that seemed obvious.
“You’re staying here tonight, right?”
She looked out the window at the lightning flashing across Lake Superior.
Then back at me.
And smiled.
“Nope.”
I honestly thought she was joking. She wasn’t.
She planned to head back onto the trail.
Into that storm. To find a place to sleep for the night.
As a mom, every alarm bell in my body went off.
I didn’t hear adventure anymore.
I heard wolves.
I heard bears.
I heard thunderstorms rolling across the ridges.
I pictured a young woman I barely knew, alone in a tent somewhere deep in the woods while trees swayed overhead.
Lightning flashing through the forest.
Wind pushing against the fabric of her tent.
Meanwhile she sat there calmly sipping hot cocoa like this was all perfectly reasonable.
So I offered her a room at my place.
My kids were with their dad that weekend, and I had plenty of space.
At first she hesitated.
Not because I was a stranger or that she didn’t want a warm bed and a hot shower.
Because she didn’t want to skip even a mile of the trail.
She had started this journey one step at a time and wanted to finish it the same way.
I understood that.
Sometimes a goal becomes sacred.
Skipping a section would feel like cheating.
So I promised I’d drive her right back to the exact same spot in the morning.
Not a mile lost.
Not a mile gained.
She finally agreed.
And I’m so glad she did.
Because that storm was no joke.
The next morning there were trees down everywhere.
Power outages.
Damage reports.
Even talk of tornadoes.
The kind of storm people remember.
But dawn came.
The sky cleared.
The lake calmed.
That’s how it works on the North Shore.
One moment the world feels wild and dangerous.
The next it’s breathtaking.
And somewhere that morning, she shouldered her heavy pack, stepped back onto the trail, and disappeared into the woods.
I never saw her again.
But all these years later, I back here, sitting beside Lake Superior while I’m on my own solo journey and watching another storm roll through, I thought about her.
I hope she finished every mile.
I hope she found wolves howling beneath the stars and sunrises that made every hard step worth it.
I hope she’s still out there collecting stories.
Because all these years later, she’s still part of one of mine.
And maybe that’s why I’ve carried this memory for so long.
Because courage is contagious.
Sometimes one brave person changes the course of another person’s journey without ever knowing they did.
*ai generated photo
