The Woman on the Ferry

A Journey of 1,000 Miles to Redefine Success and Discover Joy

Dear Readers, I’m in the editing process, and I’m pleased to show off my new book cover. Enjoy this complimentary read of the updated Introduction and Chapter 1.

Introduction

In a society that measures worth through external metrics—degrees earned, dollars in your account, followers gained—I've spent most of my life climbing the ladder of achievement. My story could be considered a classic American Dream—the farm girl who earned her PhD and created positive change in the world. Throughout my career, I've excelled at evaluating programs, writing articles, presenting groundbreaking research, and championing justice system reforms. By conventional standards, I had "made it." Until I didn’t!

As I watched another marketing campaign fail, I began to feel like I was living someone else's dream. In the relentless world of entrepreneurship, every business setback struck like a gavel, declaring me unworthy. The more I chased external validation, the farther I drifted from my true self. Exhaustion replaced passion, and clarity finally broke through: success wasn't something that could be measured in dollars or titles.

Life has a way of leaving breadcrumbs, subtle markers that only make sense when we look back. Years ago, a chance encounter planted the seed for this realization. It was a warm, breezy morning in the U.S. Virgin Islands. I was there for a work trip, my twelve-year-old child in tow, and we had signed up for a snuba adventure—a mix of snorkeling and scuba diving. On the ferry to Cruz Bay, I spotted her.

As we climbed to the ferry's upper deck, I noticed her—a woman with short-cropped silver hair sitting alone. She carried a quiet radiance that stopped me in my tracks, an inner light that whispered, "This woman knows the secret to life."

I watched her as we made the crossing, my gaze shifting between her and the breathtaking panorama around us. The view offered a feast for the senses—turquoise waters deepening into indigo, the emerald slopes of St. John rising dramatically from pristine beaches. Overhead, brown pelicans glided effortlessly, while frigatebirds circled against the brilliant sky.

She didn't just observe the beauty around her—she absorbed it. Every ripple of water and whisper of wind seemed to flow through her, her face glowing with a contentment that held the very essence of this crossing deep within her soul.

As the ferry docked at Cruz Bay, we made our way to the open-air taxis awaiting tourists. By chance, she stepped into the same taxi. When we reached our stop, she too stepped down. Following the sandy path, our footsteps aligned as we both headed to the adventure shack. There, in a moment that felt more like divine orchestration than coincidence, we discovered we'd signed up for the same snuba expedition. The universe, it seemed, was determined to weave our paths together that day.

During our walk on the beach, she shared her story. From the outside, her life had seemed like something out of a storybook. She had been married to the same man for over fifty years—a golden anniversary most would celebrate as a triumph. They had dreamed of retirement filled with travel and adventure. But when the time came, he planted himself in a recliner, content to watch the world through the television screen.

"I spent my entire life doing what I was supposed to do," she said, her voice calm but unwavering. "I played by the rules. I followed the script. But I just couldn't see spending the rest of my life in a rocking chair, watching the world pass me by. There's too much to see. Too much to experience."

Her decision wasn't easy. Leaving a fifty-year marriage seemed unthinkable to those around her. Her friends called her reckless, idealistic, even selfish. "Who does that at your age?" they asked. But for her, staying in that stagnant life meant dying a little more with each passing day.

So, she left. She traded the familiar for the unknown, the predictable for the possibility of something extraordinary. Now, here she was, walking barefoot on a beach wrapped in turquoise waters, her days filled with purpose as a volunteer for a nature conservancy.

"I didn't leave to chase some dream of perfection," she added, looking out at the horizon. "I left to feel alive."

All these years later, her name has slipped from my memory, but her story remains etched in my soul. She became a kind of touchstone for me, her courage a steady beacon I could call upon whenever life felt uncertain or choices seemed too daunting. Over time, she grew into something more—a mentor without ever realizing it, a quiet guide to a life unbound by convention.

As I set out on this journey to redefine success, I felt her presence more strongly than ever, like a compass pointing me toward something true. I finally gave her a name: Celeste. It seemed fitting, tied to the heavens and the vast, open skies she so effortlessly embodied—a name as expansive and free as the life she had chosen to live.

Celeste wasn't just a woman I met on a ferry; she was a reminder that the path to joy often requires radical courage. That one moment of radiance, that one brief encounter, stayed with me for years, surfacing every time I questioned what it meant to live authentically.

Now, as I embark on a bold experiment—to hike 1,000 miles in five months—I feel her presence as if she's walking beside me. She's the quiet voice urging me to trust the journey, to leave behind the weight of societal expectations, and to let nature guide me. This book isn't just about hiking; it's about the wilderness within us. By immersing myself in the trails of the western United States, I hope to find clarity and reconnect with a joy that's been obscured by the relentless pursuit of external validation.

Her words, or at least the ones I imagined she might say, echoed in my mind—gentle, steady, and sure. It felt as though she were speaking directly to me, urging me to trust the path ahead, even if I couldn't see where it led.

Let the trees talk.
Let the winds whisper.
Let the stars light the way.

Chapter 1: The Accidental Beginning

Dates: May 19 - 25

Location: Southern California

Trails: Pacific Crest Trail to Eagle Rock

Miles Hiked in Week 1: 52.4

After six years of entrepreneurial efforts—the intoxicating highs of launching new programs and the crushing lows of crickets chirping in response—I finally admitted defeat. Failure has a way of forcing you to take stock of where you are and how you got there.

Last fall, I had traded in my nomadic life as an RVer for what I hoped would be a fresh start. With Los Angeles, San Diego, and Vegas within reach, I settled into an RV resort in southern California, certain I could breathe new life into my business and jumpstart my speaking career. Looking back, the irony wasn't lost on me: I'd traded the freedom of the open road for a stationary life, all in pursuit of a dream that seemed to drift further away with each passing day.

The vibrant life I'd envisioned had given way to the hum of ambulances in the 55+ community I'd reluctantly joined. And then Celeste began to appear in my dreams. Her radiance, her courage, her refusal to settle—they all resurfaced like a beacon in the fog. I could almost hear her voice, firm yet compassionate: "Brenda, let's be real. There's nothing holding you back. Look at where you are in life—you can do whatever you want."

Her imagined words sparked a realization: I wasn't in dire straits. Yes, the business had failed, but I was debt-free, with a solid retirement fund and no one to answer to but myself. I had nothing to lose.

Hiking had always been my North Star, a compass that pointed me toward joy and clarity, but I'd neglected it for far too long. It was time to reclaim it with an ambitious challenge: 1,000 miles in five months.

Then I laughed at myself. Here I was, writing a book about transcending external measures of success, and my first act of liberation was to set a goal based on—what else? External measures. But here's the truth: I can't quit metrics cold turkey. I love my spreadsheets, my charts, my goals. There's something deeply satisfying about ticking off a box, marking progress, seeing those numbers climb.

This goal promised more than just miles—it offered fitness, joy, and clarity, the very tools I needed to navigate this next chapter and redefine success on my own terms. Still, doubt crept in. Just last week, my total walking mileage was a paltry 4.6 miles. How could I possibly leap from less than one mile a day to my target?

1,000 miles in 5 months:

• 200 miles per month

• 45.5 miles per week

• 6.5 miles per day

I needed a test—a way to see if I was even capable of sustaining a pace like this. So I declared May 19 the start of my practice week. Luckily, I was camped just 30 minutes away from an incredible trail: a 6.3-mile out-and-back to Eagle Rock on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). I knew this section well and loved it for its variety. The first stretch followed a flowing creek through a forest of Coast Live Oaks, the air cool and shaded. From there, the trail opened into the high desert, where cholla cacti and chamise plants dotted the rugged landscape. Finally, it spilled out onto an open prairie, golden wild oats swaying in the breeze like waves on a sunlit sea.

I started on a foggy Sunday morning. Balancing on a soggy log to cross the creek, I entered the forest. Two rabbits, looking up at me as if to say "Good luck," hopped away. I took my time, absorbing everything—the sun, the breeze, the babbling creek, crows nesting in the trees, and a lizard sunning itself on a rock. My senses were alive. Maybe I could do this after all?

On Monday morning, I woke up feeling tired and worn out. It was only day two, and already I was craving a break! I gave myself a quick pep talk, reminding myself that this journey would have many days just like this—days when my body protested, and my mind wanted to quit. Once I started walking under the vast, clear blue sky, I knew I'd find my rhythm.

As I entered the high desert region, my thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement on the trail. A baby snake slithered across my path, and I jumped back with a startled, "Yowza!" I couldn't help but laugh at myself. Where had that childhood exclamation come from? I hadn't said that in years, but there it was, slipping out as if I were still a kid afraid of slithering creatures.

Tuesday brought companionship as I invited a friend to join me on the trail. We had hiked together before, so I knew our paces would match, and the time would slip by easily, carried by our shared conversation. My friend, ten years older than me and a cancer survivor, reminded me of something I often forgot: age is relative, and resilience is a lesson that never fades. As we hiked, her story unfolded—the end of a marriage, grown children, then finding herself living a solo life on the road. Her journey had a quiet power, a reinvention that felt so familiar, almost like the story of Celeste.

On Wednesday morning, I pushed myself out the door once again, bundling up against the chill that hung in the air. Alone but feeling a bit more confident, I stepped onto the trail and was greeted by a series of small surprises. As I crossed the cattle gate, I paused to take in a Coast Live Oak tree I’d passed every day that week. But today, beneath it, I spotted something unexpected: a cluster of Prickly Pear Cactus. An odd pairing, right? Yet there it was, thriving in the same spot, a reminder of nature’s tendency to surprise us.

A little farther up the trail, I came across a wild turkey crossing my path. What a treat! I smiled to myself, feeling like the wildlife had become my companions. Even the cattle, moving cautiously away from the trail, seemed like old friends.

This was the magic of nature. No matter how many times I walked the same path, watched the sunset from the same horizon, or listened to the quiet breeze rustling through the wild oats, each day, each moment, was uniquely different. It was a gift, reminding me that the world was always changing, even in its most familiar corners.

Thursday's mission: test out my new pair of Merrell hiking shoes. But what started out as a routine hike, became an extraordinary experience. During the first two miles, I let my mind wander, flooding me with random memories, each one flickering by like scenes in an old ViewMaster. Standing atop Mount Washington, my father on his tractor, sharing ice cream with my sister—each image a thread in the tapestry of my life, weaving me into this moment.

And then something truly amazing happened. I slipped into a state of coherence, a perfect synchronization of body and mind. The click of my trekking poles, the crunch of earth beneath my feet, and the steady rhythm of my breath all merged into a single, harmonious cadence. In those moments, the weight of my past failures lifted, replaced by a profound connection to the world around me.

By the time I climbed into my Jeep for the ride home, I was riding a “hiker’s high” that would stay with me all day. It felt as though my senses had been sharpened, each detail of the world around me suddenly vivid, bursting with color and possibility. The question lingered: Could I tap into this state of coherence more often? If I could, I knew there would be nothing I couldn’t face.

Friday morning, I encountered my true obstacle: my inner weather wimp. If there's a weather excuse to be found, I'll skip the walk. Too cold? I'll stay in. Raining? A perfect day to curl up with a book. And so, on this dreary Friday morning, with temperatures hovering in the 40s, my first instinct was to stay nestled under the covers in my warm RV.

I delayed my start, waiting for the sun to push the temperature up a few degrees. Each day on the trail had been a surprise, and today turned out to be "cow day." I had to maneuver around a herd of cattle grazing near the path, their eyes curious but calm. I chuckled as I passed a pair of women further up the trail who had hiked up a steep hill to avoid the cows. Having grown up on a dairy farm, I felt perfectly at home around cattle.

As I neared the golden fields of wild oats, I spotted a familiar face—another hiker I’d crossed paths with over the past few days. We stopped to chat, and she excitedly told me about the bobcat she had recently spotted on her hike. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, and I felt another pull toward the trail—the sense of camaraderie, the smiles, the easy greetings exchanged with fellow travelers.

On my return trek from Eagle Rock, I was serenaded by a pair of house wrens, calling to each other from opposite sides of the trail. Maybe they were chatting about me, or maybe just singing their own song. Either way, I felt Celeste’s presence with me, a quiet reminder that there are rewards when we face our fears—when we push past hesitancy, even our weather wimp tendencies

By Saturday, I was beyond excited to greet the morning, marking my seventh day on the trail. The weather wasn’t much better than the day before—gray skies hung low, and the blustery wind made my hoodie a necessity. The trail was busy, so I hustled through the first few miles, creating some space between myself, a group of scouts, and a lively trio of women. My quick pace left me winded, but I welcomed the shift in energy as the sounds of birds and the rustling wind gradually overtook the chatter, bringing me back into the rhythm of the trail.

By the time I crossed the creek on my return to the parking area, I was overcome with a burst of energy. I raised my trekking poles in the air and did a little victory dance. I had done it! One full week of hiking every day! When I tallied my miles for the week, I realized I’d exceeded my goal of 45.5 miles, reaching a proud 52.4 miles. I could hardly believe it. I can do this!

Success, however you define it, requires a plan!

I'm a planner by nature, thriving on spreadsheets and detailed itineraries. My usual pattern involved nine to ten months on the road before wintering in South Padre Island, but my extended California stay had changed everything. As I sat down to plan my hiking journey, reality hit: I had just four months on the road, not five. There was no way I could manage this quest in just four months. And after my successful practice week—with 52.4 miles already behind me—the answer became clear: my quest had officially begun.

As I thought about the trails ahead, I began to imagine Celeste's wisdom appearing to me in the form of postcards. Not real postcards, of course, but messages she might send from all corners of the world, offering exactly what I needed to hear at the right moment. I could almost picture her sitting in a quiet outdoor café, a warm cup of tea at her side, writing to me with a sense of calm purpose. I felt a thrill of anticipation as I "received" her first message.

Dear Brenda,

Greetings from this beautiful world! I’m so proud of your undertaking. Remember, success—like life—doesn’t just happen. Make your plan, and then adapt with each twist and turn. Trust the journey, and you’ll find yourself exactly where you’re meant to be.

Keep going. Let the trail teach you how to walk it.

Celeste

Her words—or what I imagined she might say—lit a fire under me. A plan, that's what I needed: a serious plan to guide me toward my goal. But as I sat down to map it out, three challenges loomed large: low-mileage travel days, unpredictable weather, and—my arch-nemesis—boredom.

Driving a 32-foot rig while towing a Jeep isn't my idea of fun. It can be a white-knuckle affair that demands every ounce of focus. Add in the process of setting up camp—unhitching the Jeep, parking and leveling the rig, and setting up the catio tent—and the day's energy is zapped. With 15 travel days on the calendar, I felt a pang of anxiety. On those days, I'd be lucky to squeeze in a mile or two, let alone hit my weekly targets. The math was clear: I'd need to supercharge my mileage on non-travel weeks to stay on track.

Then came the wild card: weather. California in July could bring heat waves or, worse, wildfires. By late summer, Washington's skies would likely turn gloomy and wet. But not all was doom and gloom. The first six weeks of the journey looked promising, with opportunities for local hikes in May and early June, followed by a stint in the cool, shaded San Bernardino National Forest. If I pushed hard during those weeks, I could bank extra miles—a "reserve" to cover those inevitable travel days and rainy spells.

Finally, there was the monotony factor. I knew I wouldn't have the Pacific Crest Trail stretching out before me every day. Some days, maybe even weeks, would be spent looping around campgrounds or trudging along paved roads and bike paths. The very thought made me groan. So, I gave those walks a name: “Minion Miles." They might not have the grandeur of a wilderness trail, but they'd serve their purpose—keeping me moving and chipping away at my goal. By naming and mentally preparing for these less glamorous walks, I could stay focused, even when boredom crept in.

As I finalize these strategies, I feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. Celeste, that woman on the ferry, once a distant memory, now feels like a beacon guiding me forward. With each step, each mile, each challenge, I'm not just covering distance—I'm uncovering the person I was always meant to be. The quest has truly begun, and the path ahead beckons with the promise of transformation and discovery.