The First Step

We were up early, though that wasn’t difficult. The Backpackers Campground was already coming to life as hikers emerged from their tents, each preparing to begin a different adventure. There was a quiet energy in the air—packs being tightened, trekking poles clicking together, whispered conversations, and the unmistakable feeling that something significant was about to begin.

Breakfast was simple but would become very familiar: oatmeal mixed with bananas and peanut butter powder, washed down with coffee and a little honey. We packed our tent and the rest of our gear, a process that would soon become second nature through daily repetition. But on this first morning, every movement felt deliberate and filled with anticipation.

I’ll never forget slipping the shoulder straps over my arms and lifting the full weight of my backpack onto my back, knowing this was the beginning. The pack settled into place against my shoulders and hips, and at that same moment my heart settled into the realization that this was no longer months of planning or years of dreaming.

This was it.

Ironically, our first mile on the John Muir Trail wasn’t really on the John Muir Trail at all. We hiked through Yosemite Valley in the cool darkness of morning, making our way to the official trailhead. Those quiet steps gave us time to gather our thoughts and share our excitement and hesitations before the climb began.

Then we stood in front of the wooden sign—the sign marking the start of an adventure.

John Muir Trail.

After months of preparation and years of talking about this adventure, we finally crossed the threshold and took our first official steps. We stepped onto the trail just after 7:00 a.m.

Looking back now, I realize that every great journey has a moment like that. There comes a point when preparation ends, uncertainty remains, and the only thing left to do is take the first step.

The trail began gently enough, following the Merced River along a paved path. But the gradual incline quickly gave way to a relentless climb.

And it never really stopped for that entire first day on the trail.

Yosemite was in the middle of an unusual heat wave. The temperature climbed steadily until it pushed past 100 degrees. We were climbing from roughly 4,000 feet in Yosemite Valley to more than 8,000 feet while carrying fully loaded backpacks. Every switchback seemed to reveal another one above it. The mountain wasn’t interested in easing us into the journey.

During the permit orientation, the ranger had warned us that water sources might be limited because of the dry conditions, so we each carried about two and a half liters. At the time, it seemed like a wise decision. It wasn’t long before we realized that every extra pound mattered. As the day unfolded, we also discovered there was more water available than we had expected.

That first day became our introduction to one of the ongoing balancing acts of backpacking: carrying enough water to stay safe without carrying so much that it unnecessarily saps your strength. We would continue learning that lesson throughout the trip, gradually becoming more confident in managing both hydration and pack weight.

The heat, elevation, and heavy packs forced us to stop more often than we had imagined. Each break seemed to give us just enough strength to tackle the next stretch of trail. We encouraged one another, reminding ourselves that every day couldn’t possibly be this difficult.

One of us wasn’t entirely convinced.

The final three miles into camp became some of the hardest miles we’ve ever hiked. The afternoon sun reflected off the granite, baking the trail. We were exhausted, hungry, dirty, and beginning to wonder just how much harder the days ahead might become. Lynlee was struggling, and she reminded me that my greatest contribution at that moment wasn’t hiking faster or carrying more—it was encouraging her well.

Looking back, I think that lesson extended far beyond the trail.

Marriage isn’t simply about sharing the load. It’s about learning when your spouse needs strength borrowed from you until they find their own again.

Sometimes encouragement becomes just as important as endurance. So we kept walking. One step. Then another.

Eventually, the trail led us to our campsite just off the John Muir Trail along the Forsyth Trail Junction—the trail we would take the next morning toward our first side trip: Clouds Rest.

The moment we dropped our packs, everything changed. Fatigue gave way to relief. Relief gave way to gratitude. After setting up camp, we sat down to rest and make supper. As our White Chicken Chili warmed in our food cozies, we quietly took it all in.

We had survived an incredibly difficult first day. We better understood the challenge ahead, but we also knew something else.

We were actually doing it.

The John Muir Trail was no longer something we hoped to accomplish someday. It had begun.