Just a Long Walk

By James Gibson

Pressing the reset button on your life isn't easy. When James Gibson realized he was heading in the wrong direction, he set out on a hiking journey that changed his life. His is a universa

• Language: English
• Publisher: Halycon Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986982717

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What Readers Think About Just A Long Walk:

This book . . . . is absolutely awesome! The author eloquently writes so you feel like you are right there with him . . . . This book relates to so many of us and his accomplishments are very empowering . . . . Much gratitude to the writer for laying it all out there. This is a must read!!

An excellent and enjoyable memoir about a hiking journey that changes the author’s life. It’s a story about courage, overcoming fears, phobias, and accepting the changes and challenges of life. James is so descriptive in his writing you feel as if you’re part of the journey. If you enjoy reading a very inspirational and motivational story then you will absolutely love this book!

James Gibson has an uncommon ability to pull you into the story and make you feel and believe as though you are experiencing it yourself. A thoroughly good read from start to end.

This book is tough to put down, it’s a real page-turner. You don’t need to be a hiker, or even an outdoorsman to relate to James’ journey. Extremely well written, it’s open, honest and revealing. Life lessons, chance encounters, hopes, fears, setbacks and ultimate fulfillment . . . . every step in this long walk makes for a truly enjoyable read.

Gibson provides a compelling tale of his efforts to complete the John Muir Trail in the California Sierra mountains, as well as a compelling story about achieving happiness and fulfillment through the completion of a major undertaking. I thoroughly enjoyed taking the journey with him as I read along, couldn’t put the book down, and highly recommend it.

This book was a really enjoyable read. One man’s honest truth about finding himself, love, and conquering his fears, all in the backdrop of one of the most remarkable places a nature lover could find. Kick back and enjoy.

title

© 2022 James Gibson

All rights reserved.

This publication may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Brief quotations may be used in literary reviews. Inquiries should be made to JustALongWalk.com.

Paperback: 979-8-9869827-0-0

E-book: 979-8-9869827-1-7

Audiobook: 979-8-9869827-2-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022920306

Printed in the United States of America.

This book was created with help from Editwright. Visit editwright.com for more information.

Creative direction by Andrew Doty

Developmental editing by Barbara Egbert

Copyediting by Carolina VonKampen

Cover and book design by Peggy Nehmen: www.n-kcreative.com

Proofreading by Dana Zwaska

Published by Halcyon Press, San Diego, California

JustALongWalk.com

Cover photo by the author: Squaw Lake, John Muir Trail, elevation 10,600’

Quote from Colin Fletcher’s The Complete Walker III (1984, Knopf) used by permission from Penguin Random House.

Quote from John Muir’s John of the Mountains: The Unpublished Journals of John Muir,

© 1984, Muir-Hanna Trust, John Muir Papers, used by permission from the Muir-Hanna Trust and the Holt-Atherton Special Collections and Archives

BIO026000 BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs

OCC043000 BODY, MIND & SPIRIT / Nature Therapy

NAT045040 NATURE / Ecosystems & Habitats / Wilderness

For my sons:

may you understand,

perhaps forgive,

but never settle for less than you can achieve.

Contents

I. Awakening

The Walk Begins

Inertia

Just Keep Swimming

Muir Wisdom

II. Reflection & Revelation

Journal Entries

III. Healing & Discovery

Off to Yosemite

Welcome to the Woods

Sierra Family

A Brush With Civilization

Respect

Light

Smoke

Fire

Signs

An Early End

Return to Whitney Portal

Solo Memories

The Return

Water and Evolution

The Last Erratic

Voices

Down From the Mountains

Conversation With an Old Friend

Angels & Other Encounters

A Dream & Some Luck

Memories & New Beginnings

Epilogue

About the Author

Thank you for reading . . .

Landmarks

Cover

Follow along with James’s adventures through his photography at JustALongWalk.com:

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If you judge safety to be the paramount consideration in life you should never, under any circumstances, go on long hikes alone. Don’t take short hikes alone, either—or, for that matter, go anywhere alone. And avoid at all costs such foolhardy activities as driving, falling in love, or inhaling air that is almost certainly riddled with deadly germs . . . And never, of course, explore the guts of an idea that seems as if it might threaten one of your more cherished beliefs. In your wisdom you will probably live to be a ripe old age. But you may discover, just before you die, that you have been dead for a long, long time.

—Colin Fletcher, The Complete Walker III (1984)

I. Awakening

The Walk Begins

You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.

—Eleanor Roosevelt

I a m afraid of heights. Very afraid. It is completely irrational, but there it is. I even get anxious driving over high bridges. I once stood at the top of the Empire State Building but did not enjoy it at all. I survived the Eiffel Tower as well, although the movement of the structure in the wind gave me the creeps, and I was very happy once I was safely on the ground again. When it comes to heights, the sooner I can get down, the better.

So what was I thinking when my oldest son, Michael, approached me and asked if I would like to join him on a climb up the infamous Half Dome cables in Yosemite? Considered one of the most difficult day hikes in the country, climbing Half Dome requires twelve to fourteen hours, an ascent of nearly five thousand feet, and a final push up four hundred feet of seemingly vertical granite while clinging to a cable. It has been called the ultimate Yosemite day hike—the one you can’t die without doing, and the one you’re most likely to die doing.

Thoughts and memories flashed through my head in rapid succession like a movie on fast-forward, all blurred images, gibberish, and jerky motions. On a day hike through the woods over forty years ago, I had first viewed the back of Half Dome and quietly added climbing the massive granite monolith to my bucket list. I had never acted on that promise.

Countless times since that day, I had stood in Yosemite Valley looking up at Half Dome, wondering what the view from the top might hold and vowing to face my fear and find out—someday. There was always an excuse, real or manufactured.

And, of course, as Michael waited patiently for my response, I remembered my fear of heights. I pushed it to the background. The time had come.

Yes, count me in, I said, exhibiting a confidence I did not feel. My gut was churning, my mind slowly turning over what I had just agreed to attempt.

Half Dome is iconic. It is the ubiquitous symbol of Yosemite Valley, painted on the official vehicles in the valley, emblazoned on mugs, T-shirts, and just about anything else that can be sold to tourists; it is one of the most recognized peaks in the world. People the world over see a picture of Half Dome and think Yosemite. If you have seen it, you never forget it, and if you have only seen a photo, you long to journey there; it has an almost mystical attraction. Yosemite is simply my favorite place on Earth, and Half Dome is its crown jewel.

As recently as the 1870s, Half Dome was considered unclimbable, an assertion that seems laughable today. In October 1885, George Anderson pioneered what is today the cable route up the backside, driving eye bolts into the granite and pulling himself up the final four hundred feet of forty-five-to-sixty-degree sloping granite to the top. In 1919, the Sierra Club led the effort to place today’s cables on the backside of Half Dome, described today as one of the six most dangerous hikes in the United States.

Which brings me back to my fear of heights. Paralyzing fear was lurking in the shadows of my mind, just waiting to reach out and grab me by the throat. Clearly, I needed a strategy to overcome this demon.

So began my preparation routine. Obviously, hiking and physical training were important—just getting to the cables is demanding for anyone, but especially for a man in his early sixties. More important was the mental preparation because no matter how physically prepared I was, I knew that after hiking for hours through the woods, my first glimpse of the cables snaking up the sheer granite had the potential to stop me in my tracks. It would all be for naught; fear would triumph and laugh at me as I recoiled in agony, quietly slinking back down the trail.

To avoid this, I began and ended every day for weeks studying photos of the backside of Half Dome, focusing on the tiny line of people hanging onto the cables, attempting to make the image so embedded in my consciousness that I would not be shocked when actually faced with the reality, or so I hoped.

— August 2012 —

After several months of preparation and anxiety, the day for our adventure has arrived. I am the old guy of our group, which includes my oldest son, Michael, his best friend from college, Ryan, and my youngest son, Stephen. We awake at 2 a.m., and I consciously fight back my fear of what the day will hold, telling myself to just start moving.

We begin our hike to the trailhead in the darkness of early morning. Our headlamps cut through the darkness; our pace is quick as we hurry between tall trees on either side of the road. The climb begins up the Mist Trail, which winds through the trees and around the rocks up to the base of Vernal Fall. The beginnings of Mist Trail are actually paved because it is so popular and heavily traveled by daytime visitors. But now it is empty; we are alone.

The sound of rushing water grows as we climb, then we cross a footbridge across the violent river, leave the paved path, and begin up the steep, narrow trail along a rock face. It is unsettling to climb in darkness, hearing the water crashing over the falls, feeling the mist in the air, taking care with each step on the wet and slick rock trail. Vernal Fall is invisible through the darkness. I feel my apprehension grow, for I know we are hiking on the edge of a cliff and the height is masked by the darkness. Thoughts of what is coming—much greater height in the full light of day—run through my mind.

We continue past Vernal Fall and Nevada Fall, then through the trees of Little Yosemite Valley as the day begins to warm with the rising sun. And then we break out of the trees on the ridge line, and straight ahead in the clear morning air is the back of Half Dome, with a couple of specks clinging to the cables that are anchored to the rock face. I stop dead in my tracks and realize no photograph can truly prepare you for this sight.

What am I doing here, I think as I look with trepidation at the route to the top.

We reach the beginning of the cables, and I look down to Yosemite Valley several thousand feet to my right. My stomach churns, and I get an uneasy feeling. As I gaze up the sheer rock wall, I hear the conversation of two young couples just behind me.

I think the view from here is good enough for me, says one young man to his female companion. His male friend agrees, and it is clear they are not going any farther. Comfort and safety have won; the only thing that remains for them is to return down the long trail to the tourist-clogged valley.

This is the moment of truth, and I know it. Now or never.

I try not to look up or down and instead pull a climbing harness out of my pack, focusing on my physical preparation. My one concession to safety is to use a short climbing rope with a carabiner, a piece of climbing equipment a few inches long with a spring-loaded catch that opens and closes, which I will clip to the cable as I climb. Somehow, it makes me feel better, but the reality is I will have to clip and unclip the carabiner over and over as the cable passes through the tops of a series of short steel posts driven into the granite face for four hundred feet—as far as I can see. Every time I clip and unclip, I will be exposed to the height, the potential to fall. I push the thought to the back of my mind, determined not to give in at this critical moment.

I turn to my youngest son, Stephen, a tall, strong man in his twenties, and tell him, If I don’t go now, I won’t. Let’s go. I’ll follow you.

And so we begin, my youngest son in front of me, my oldest behind me, the slope of the granite easy at first, like walking up a (very, very) steep hill. Clip, walk, come to a post, pause to wrap my left arm around the post while my right hand reaches out to unclip the carabiner from the cable, then quickly clip it again on the other side of the post. The rock face is becoming much steeper, but I try to focus on pulling myself up the waist-high cables on my left and right.

Up we climb. Unclip, clip, pull with both arms. It is getting much steeper, much more difficult. Unclip, clip, climb, unclip, clip. My legs are tired; my left arm hurts from wrapping it around the posts and bearing my full weight while I unclip and clip the carabiner. My arms burn. I stare at the steep granite wall in front of me and tell myself to just keep moving. Do not think about where you are.

And then Michael, just below me, cries out, Dad, look at the view, it’s awesome!

Staring straight ahead at the granite just in front of my eyes, I yell back, I’ll look from the top. But I am reminded of where I am, and I fight back the urge to look, for I know even a glance will turn me to human granite, frozen in place. My greatest phobia is just a glance away, but I shudder and resist.

And then the incline relents, just a little bit, and I am nearing the top. As the face rounds toward the summit, I pull myself up the last fifty feet and walk out onto the summit of Half Dome.

I am overcome with emotion. I have not conquered the mountain; I have conquered my fear, something I would only later fully appreciate. A long-held goal has been achieved, and I have done it with two of my sons and a young man who I think of as a son. If I were alone, I would cry, but social convention forces me to suppress my tears. We take pictures, but this is a moment to freeze in memory, and I try to lock it in my mind, hoping I will be able to remember this moment, this emotion, for I know I will never return to this special place. Once is all I can muster, but it is enough.

A friend of mine who climbed Mount Everest described the experience as 80 percent pure misery, 19 percent absolute terror, and 1 percent sheer joy. What a perfect description of much of life. For me, no climber of the world’s highest peak, this is the 1 percent, the sheer joy, standing atop Half Dome. It is modest, but this is my Mount Everest. As I gaze over the Sierra, I know this is my ultimate outdoor achievement.

And then it is time to go. Our brief ninety minutes on Half Dome summit have flown by almost dreamlike, but we have a long hike back to the car.

It sounds strange, but most accidents happen descending a mountain, not during the ascent. Your adrenaline has peaked, the goal has been reached, and the fatigue seems to increase exponentially, which leads to sloppiness, less care, and, inevitably, a mistake causing injury—or perhaps tragedy.

I tell myself, Concentrate, concentrate, don’t let up now.

Turning my back to the abyss, I clip onto the cable and begin to descend. Clip, unclip, descend, clip, unclip, descend; the pattern returns in reverse. For some reason, it is less terrifying, certainly quicker, but I am careful not to look left, right, or down; the fear is still lurking in the shadows. Suddenly, I am at the end of the cables; I unclip for the last time, take a deep breath, and look up to see my sons descending in front of me as I look up the steep face of Half Dome.

I think, I have made it, the worst is over, now I just have a long hike back to the valley, ignoring my years of experience, for this is the moment when you must be more careful, not less.

We enter the trees and the trail switchbacks down the mountain, steep in spots, but easy, nothing I would think twice about, which is the problem. I am not thinking; I am getting sloppy. Sierra trails often have smooth granite lurking just below the surface of dirt or loose pebbles, and if you step just the wrong way, it is like stepping on the slickest piece of sloping ice you can imagine. Suddenly, I hit a piece of granite ice, and I go down hard.

The guys stop and huddle around me, asking if I’m okay.

I look up and tell them the only thing injured is my pride. I am embarrassed for making such an elementary mistake, but then I begin to get up and I know the damage is more physical. I try to stand, but the pain in my left leg is intense, especially my knee.

I’m fine. Let’s keep going, I say. But I soon discover I simply cannot keep up their pace; the pain in my left knee is intensifying. I fall behind and they wait for me, then we begin again, until I tell them not to worry about me; I will make it down, and they do not need to wait on my slow pace.

I am on my own as they disappear across the bridge over the river and down the trail through the trees. No problem, I tell myself as I limp down the trail, the pain in my left knee growing more intense with every step. I am limping dramatically when I reach a series of long switchbacks through the trees and the pain seems to ratchet up to a new level, something I have never experienced before. I experiment with different ways to step to avoid the pain and find nothing works. I am literally almost crying out with every step on my left leg. In desperation, I turn and try to walk backward to find some relief, but the pain is still intense.

As I work my way slowly down the trail, I consider what I have accomplished in my outdoor life, what I have done today. Thoughts tumble through my mind with each painful step. I know it may be severe; knee injuries can be chronic, a lifelong disability. Is this my last serious hike, after many years and countless hikes, backpacking trips, and incredible adventures? Does it end now, in the trees below Vernal Fall?

I consider the possibility that something I love with all my heart and soul could be gone. I stop to let the pain subside a bit and roll this limited future through my consciousness. Surprisingly, I find a strange peace welling up in me, for I have had the hike of a lifetime, a hike I contemplated and ran away from for most of my life. If I never hike another mile, I will always have today, for I have overcome, at least for a day, one of my biggest fears, in my favorite place on Earth.

The last mile to the car along the road we traversed seemingly a lifetime ago in darkness takes forever, but finally, more exhausted than I can ever remember, I reach the car. The ride back to the rented cabin through the woods is a blur. Back at the cabin, we all sit in the hot tub, sipping beer and congratulating ourselves on a grand achievement.

But in retrospect, this day was more than a long and spectacular hike—so much more. We often miss the import of moments like this when they occur. It is only later, when our vision is clear, that we recognize their importance. My knee recovered, although it still gives a twinge now and then, but the more serious injury, a torn Achilles tendon, began that day, only to fully tear a few days after completing the hike. Two years of recovery lay ahead, often painful and frustrating, but I did not know it this day.

No, little did I know, sitting in the warmth of that hot tub, beer in hand, enjoying the company of some of the finest young men I know, that I would look back on this day as a major life lesson, more than a day in which I faced my fear of heights and pushed through. More importantly, I learned not to settle. Even if the unknown is terrifying, the present can be worse. And if you take a chance, the future can be full of wonders, incredible new people, and experiences you cannot even imagine. You just need the courage to start walking.

The lesson learned on Half Dome that day in August led me to make a profound change in my life little more than a year later. I would divorce, begin to build a new and better future with whatever time I had left to experience the beauty of life. We all have an expiration date, and I decided I did not want to expire with a remote in my hand. It was scary, worse than Half Dome, full of twists and turns. Intense pain, both physical and psychological. Deeply spiritual moments. Highs of complete ecstasy, joy, and wonder, plus periods of deep self-reflection before I became firmly established on a new trail.

That journey is what this book is about.

Let the walk begin.

Inertia

a property of matter by which it remains at rest or in uniform motion in the same straight line unless acted upon by some external force, OR indisposition to motion, exertion, or change

—Merriam-Webster.com

It was one of those life-defining moments we rarely see coming, but later, upon reflection, wonder how we missed the signs.

153 over 92, stated the technician at the blood bank with calm efficiency, which belied the meaning of the numbers.

My head snapped up as I said with alarm, What? For my entire life my blood pressure had been perfect, hovering close to the ideal of 120/80.

Have you been under some stress lately? she asked gently as she removed the blood pressure cuff from my arm.

Switching to autopilot while I started to process the numbers I had just heard, I answered, Not really, although deep inside I knew there was something wrong. In fact, I had known for some time that my life had gone off the rails, but I had been in denial. Serious denial.

Coal miners had a practice, now long abandoned, of bringing a caged canary into the coal mine with them, for a canary will feel the ill effects of a bad environment and die long before a miner. It served as their inexpensive early warning system that something was wrong and they needed to exit the mine immediately. Thus originated the phrase canary in a coal mine when someone wanted to express a metaphor for an early warning system.

As I sat in the chair processing my blood pressure numbers, I slowly started to realize my canary was seriously ill, if not already stone cold in the bottom of the cage. I felt a shiver of fear run through my body.

Before this day, there had been another, and much more obvious, physical sign that my life was amiss, and I had been ignoring it. Since my early twenties, I had what the doctors call a resting tremor, which manifests itself as trembling hands, much like a Parkinson’s patient. Thankfully, this was not a serious or life-threatening condition for me; it just is something I learned to live with. I learned this is much more common than people think, and those of us who suffer from this malady find ways to hide or conceal the condition in our daily interactions, much like a magician diverting the attention of the audience while performing a trick. Picking up a glass with two hands and walking while giving a speech or presentation so the focus is not on your hands are two tricks to distract people from seeing the trembling and drawing inaccurate conclusions.

I knew from experience my tremor would become worse and more difficult to hide, depending on my stress level. Good friends would smile and ask me to hold my hands out to see the level of shake when assessing how my life was going. They knew my hands could not lie. My tremor had been my canary for my entire life, and previously, I had listened to the message. But not now. I had not heard what should have been a clarion call.

Lately, my shaking had become almost uncontrollable. I couldn’t pick up a cup of coffee without spilling it, two hands or not. Taking notes or writing anything legible was proving to be impossible. In addition, I was having trouble sleeping, not normal for me, plus I was having chest pains that were clearly stress related, for I knew there was nothing wrong with my heart. Or did I? People were noticing, but I was not dealing with it. Typical guy, I was being dismissive, I’m fine, no problem. Like many guys, I would not even consider a visit to a medical office unless I deemed it serious enough, although I had been good about an annual physical for many years.

What do you do for a living? asked the technician. Perhaps you have been working too hard lately?

I considered the question and had to admit the truth. I was not working any harder than normal. I did not consider my job to be particularly stressful, although I was aware many people would disagree, but I had been doing it for so long it seemed like breathing to me. In fact, I had stepped out of a management role a couple of years earlier; the stress level had dropped significantly, and the satisfaction level had risen. Plus, I had the comfort of knowing I was generally respected in my company and industry, and I was indeed considered a top performer.

As I sat in the chair, I started to realize this was one of those moments you recognize as pivotal when viewed with hindsight. Interestingly, even with my elevated blood pressure and shaking hands, they wanted my blood donation; I guess the blood bank has a quota too. After giving a pint, I ate some cookies, drank some juice, and waited the requisite time so they could make sure I would not collapse shortly after leaving. As I waited, I pondered the question of my elevated numbers, my shaking hands, my dead canary.

Finally, being judged healthy enough to be released, I walked out into the San Diego sunshine, got into my car, and stopped to consider, really consider, what was going on in my life. If not work—what?

To an outsider, my life looked great. I had been married for thirty years and had three sons who had turned out well: two had made it through college and had jobs, and the youngest was months away from graduating from a prestigious eastern university with a bright future awaiting him. I lived in a beautiful home on a canyon in an upper-middle-class neighborhood served by some of the best schools in California. All the Christmas cards over the years had painted the picture of the perfect family.

But there was the unspoken dissatisfaction hanging in the air when people would ask my wife how we had managed to stay married for so long. Her answer was always the same. Inertia, she would reply, and then smile slightly. People would laugh, perhaps a bit uncomfortably, and then change the subject. It went right over my head; I thought it was a cute answer. Until now. As I sat in my car outside of the blood bank, my arm freshly bandaged in the brightly colored wrapping that I had been instructed to keep on for four hours, the sun streaming in through the windows, I considered my situation.

Inertia. The word kept ringing through my brain as I drove home.

Just Keep Swimming

When it is time to make a change, the universe will make it so uncomfortable for you that you will have no