The Woman on the Ferry: Chapter 23

Trail Markers of Joy

Enjoy this free chapter from The Woman on the Ferry: A Journey of 1,000 Miles to Redefine Success and Discover Joy.

Joy is the radiance that emerges when we fully engage with life—discovering wonder in nature, strength in challenges, meaning in connection, and peace in our own rhythm. It thrives on curiosity and presence, expanding through genuine relationships, and outlasts us as we share it with others—an eternal dance of light, like fireflies illuminating a summer night.

Sometimes joy disappears in the mist.

THE RELENTLESS GLOOM of the Olympic Peninsula taught me that joy, like sunshine, can be temporarily obscured. For weeks, I trudged through dense forests where light barely penetrated, my spirits sinking with each gray, dripping day. I had expected exhilaration, the kind I had felt through California’s mountains and Oregon’s forests, but instead, I found myself disconnected, as if joy had abandoned me.

What saved me wasn’t resisting the absence of joy but surrendering to it. I stopped demanding constant bliss and began honoring the full spectrum of emotions the journey evoked. Some days would shine with clarity and excitement; others would be steeped in doubt and fatigue. Both had value. When joy finally reemerged—watching fields of fireweed scatter their seeds like summer snowflakes—it was more vivid for having been lost. I realized that joy’s disappearance wasn’t failure; it was part of its natural rhythm, like the tides or the seasons. Absence makes presence more precious. Joy is a rhythm we learn to trust, knowing it will always return.

Joy thrives in simplicity.

The lighthouse keepers’ singular focus—maintaining the beacon that guided ships to safety—illuminated a profound truth: joy flourishes in the soil of simplicity. Their lives stood in stark contrast to my own, where I had long juggled multiple projects, measuring success by productivity rather than presence.

Standing in that lantern room, gazing over the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I saw how joy doesn’t emerge from doing everything, but from doing what matters most with complete presence. Society rewards multitasking, but nature teaches us that focus creates power. A lighthouse beam doesn’t try to illuminate the entire ocean; it cuts through fog by shining steadily on what is essential. I began to see how simplifying my focus—whether on writing, nature, or nourishing connections—might concentrate my joy, making it more potent and enduring than when scattered across too many pursuits. True joy is found in the unburdened moments, when we strip away the unnecessary and embrace life’s simplest gifts.

Joy grows through connection.

Like the edges where ecosystems meet—those fertile boundaries described at the Chinese Gardens—connections create conditions where joy flourishes in unexpected abundance. Throughout my journey, I’ve found that joy expands when shared, whether with strangers, loved ones, or the wild creatures that cross my path.

The women on the Centennial Trail illustrated this perfectly. What could have been a moment of awkwardness—our near collision on the path—turned into spontaneous joy when I playfully declared, “Well, since you’re walking on my side of the trail, you must want a hug.” Her surprised laughter, followed by a genuine embrace, transformed the moment into something magical, dissolving cultural barriers.

These connections extend beyond humans. The hummingbird hovering near my head, the bobcat appearing at dusk three nights in a row, the roadrunner darting across my path at mile 999—each encounter wove me into the larger fabric of life. Even Celeste, whom I met for just one afternoon years ago, remains a presence in my life, her wisdom guiding me through miles of uncertainty. Joy is not a solitary pursuit; it’s an energy exchanged, a thread that links us to something greater. The more we share joy, the more it multiplies, echoing long after the moment has passed.

Curiosity is the instigator of joy.

“What’s around the next bend?” That question has propelled me forward countless times, urging me to continue when exhaustion tempted me to stop. Whether hiking to Preston Falls, exploring an unmarked trail, or wandering into a small-town museum, curiosity has been my most steadfast companion.

This instinct extends beyond physical exploration. When I noticed a mastodon painted among cattle in a mural in Sequim, I had to know why. Learning about the 1977 discovery of mastodon bones in a local farmer’s field connected me to the deep history of the land, an unexpected delight. Children embody this mindset naturally—every leaf holds a secret, every stone a possibility. But somewhere along the way, many of us trade curiosity for certainty, choosing comfort over discovery.

Yet the trail has taught me that joy lives in the questions, not the answers. It thrives when we take unfamiliar turns, talk to strangers, or pause to examine what we’d normally pass by. Joy isn’t just found at the summit—it’s in the mystery of the next step. To remain joyful, we must remain curious, seeing the world not as a collection of known facts, but as an unfolding wonder waiting to be explored.

Joy is making peace with the passage of time.

The Oregon coast became my teacher in temporal wisdom as I watched the shoreline transform with each tide. At low tide, the beach stretched endlessly, inviting exploration. Hours later, the same expanse disappeared beneath rushing waters, altering the landscape entirely. It was a daily lesson in impermanence.

In youth, life feels like perpetual low tide—time stretching infinitely before us. The middle years accelerate, responsibilities rushing in like high tide, leaving us gasping, “Where did the time go?” Now, no longer in life’s middle, I walk the transition zone—some days catching the last stretch of low tide, other days stepping back as the waters rise. The footprints I once left in the sand now vanish more quickly. But instead of fighting time’s passage, I find peace in embracing it. We don’t own time; we are its temporary custodians, and joy comes in choosing how we leave our mark before the tide returns. Rather than fearing the tide’s advance, I find joy in the ever-changing rhythm of time’s dance.

possibilities are the gateway to joy.

While gazing at the Hunter's Moon hanging brilliantly over the Oregon coast, I realized that possibilities open doorways to our deepest joys. They appear not as grand revelations, but as quiet messages—easily missed without receptivity. The shared lunar moment with my son, the 4 a.m. epiphany about working in nature, the unexpected connection with hiking strangers—none were dramatic events, but each illuminated pathways to joy.

These possibilities present themselves in various forms. Possibilities of connection, like the supermoon linking me to my son across miles, reminding me that shared wonder transcends distance. Possibilities of reinvention, like my pre-dawn realization about working as a nature guide, arriving not through careful planning but in the liminal space between consciousness and dreams. And possibilities of authentic living, like shedding the expectations tied to age and status that had unknowingly anchored me to limitations.

What makes these possibilities transformative is their personal resonance—they can't be forced or fabricated. They emerge in moments of stillness and receptivity, carrying invitations we might otherwise dismiss. Joy doesn't require grand achievements. Sometimes, it waits within a possibility we've been too constrained to consider. In a world fixated on certainties, joy reveals itself through openness to the unexpected, reminding us that our greatest fulfillment often lies just beyond the boundaries we've accepted as fixed.

Joy is rebellious.

In the wilderness of the Rogue River, cut off from constant connectivity, I learned that choosing joy is an act of rebellion in a world that thrives on outrage and anxiety. When the news cycle, social media, and politics profit from our distress, deliberately protecting our joy becomes a radical stance. It's not about ignorance but about resisting the forces that feed on division, refusing to let them dominate our emotional state. By nurturing inner peace, we become more resilient, grounded, and effective in fighting for what matters.

Joy defies the noise and negativity around us, especially in politics. In a world where fear and anger are manipulated for power, allowing them to consume us only makes us easier to control. A joyful, centered person—one who can take action without losing herself—is the truest rebellion. By setting boundaries around political engagement and unplugging from the digital world, I reclaimed my days and my joy, refusing to let the toxic rhetoric rob me of my strength and clarity. In this rage-fueled world, choosing joy is revolutionary.

Joy is forged in adversity and resilience.

Joy, like the growth rings of a tree, is shaped not in perfect conditions but through struggle. The hardest, strongest rings in a tree’s trunk form in times of drought, when the tree must fight for every drop of water. Similarly, the greatest joys of my journey weren’t in easy moments but in those that challenged me. Facing a rattlesnake or enduring the heat at Eastman Lake didn’t provide instant pleasure, but they gave me a deeper, more resilient joy—the kind that arises from overcoming adversity.

True joy isn’t about comfort; it’s about the strength that comes from perseverance. Just as metal must be forged in fire, joy reaches its fullest form through challenge. Each test on my journey deepened my capacity for joy, revealing a satisfaction that no smooth path could have provided. The trials I faced weren’t obstacles to joy but the very thing that made it profound and lasting. By the time I neared my thousandth mile, I understood that the joy of the journey wasn’t despite the challenges, but because of them.

True joy comes from crossing your own finish line.

When I reached mile 1,000, the joy I felt wasn’t just about the achievement itself but about proving to myself that I could set an audacious goal and complete it, one step at a time. It wasn’t about external validation, but the confidence in my own strength and clarity. The joy came from knowing I had walked my own path, overcome limiting beliefs, and stayed true to my values throughout the journey.

Each of us has a unique finish line. Whether it’s climbing a mountain, writing a book, or simply getting through a tough day, true joy springs from honoring our own journey. My thousand-mile trek wasn’t about impressing others; it was about reconnecting with myself, proving that age is just a number, and finding clarity amidst life’s chaos. The joy at the finish line came from knowing I had remained true to my intentions, and that joy, like the roadrunner at mile 999, was about moving at my own pace and embracing my unique essence.