Solvitur Ambulando
Content First Appeared on The Trek
What is the appeal of being a thruhiker? If you’re new to the sport, I can imagine your thoughts: hot, freezing, wet, dirty, miserable. All the things we’re taught to avoid. And then you hear our stories of storms rolling in without warning, injuries, nights that end in the emergency room. It would be reasonable to think: something must be wrong with them.
But then there’s the phrase, solvitur ambulando: “it is solved by walking.” We know exercise heals the mind. We know time is now the rarest of currencies, more valuable than gold. And we know that long stretches without distraction can spark boredom, which in turn opens doors to reflection and ideas. Bruce Chatwin once said that walking was “the sovereign remedy for every mental travail,” and I’ve come to believe he was right.
Thruhikers walk with purpose stitched into each step. Whether they finish a section or an entire trail, the act centers them in the present moment. The values of the trail pull people back again and again, like pilgrims returning to a sacred place. Research even suggests that hope and transcendent values can heal more deeply than trauma treatment. And on trail, people with wildly different beliefs find themselves cooking side by side, laughing in the rain, and sharing miles. In a world so divided, that in itself feels like a miracle.
Perhaps there’s something to learn here. I thought of this while listening to the podcasts Big Brains and Hidden Brain, reflecting on my own struggles, and recalling a local in Bend, Oregon, who asked me, “Have you heard of solvitur ambulando?” All these experiences swirled around, etched into my mind. Stitching together parts I hoped to use to find my own meaning on this journey.
For me, the phrase became personal. I was carrying a heaviness that even therapeutic experiences couldn’t touch. This wasn’t a problem to be solved by therapy; it was a problem to be solved by each of us. A problem to overcome with our culture. And yet, one ordinary day, walking into Olallie Lake for a simple resupply, I felt the first lift of relief. It stayed with me, mile after mile, through the rest of Oregon, from one incident to the next, and the next.
Reprieve at Olallie
I met Trash Panda as they dropped off another hiker. They hugged, asked me to take their photo, and then went their separate ways. They both looked like old friends, but to my surprise, they’d only just met, brought together by a parcel sent to the wrong place. Trash Panda offered the hiker a ride back to trail and stayed at the lake to chat. They had just finished their own hike and were now offering trail magic.
We settled into the rhythm at Olallie Lake, watching hikers filter in and out (SOBOs, NOBOs, section hikers) all of us swapping names and stories. A girl with bright eyes and an Osprey pack told us her group was attempting a 24-hour challenge. She laughed and claimed she hated the idea, but her wide, alive eyes said otherwise. Surrounded by her group, she seemed caught in that strange trail alchemy where the impossible starts to look like a dream worth chasing.
We sat in circles in scraps of shade, the ground still scorched from old burns. Olallie Lake shimmered like an oasis, with Mt. Jefferson rising sharp in the distance. Dirt streaked our faces and packs, our legs stained brown from sun and dust. Still, there was something sacred in the simplicity: all of us huddled close, sharing the moment.
Anyone from a city or an office might not call this rest. But out here, shade felt better than air-conditioning. Maybe that’s the gift of struggle. How deprivation makes small mercies glow. Trash Panda and I spoke about it: what makes a thruhiker? Is it someone who covers every mile? Or someone who slips into a new mentality…a culture of connection, of healing, of finding yourself and others in nature? The trail can bind people even as they hike in opposite directions. Not everyone carries that ethic, especially as the sport grows, but for those who do, they treat the land as a legacy. Not just for themselves, but for whoever comes after.
That night, Neapolitan and I hiked out. For the first time in a year, my head felt light. Even without tree cover, even under the hot sun, it all felt…right. We pitched our tent beneath a clear sky, and I lay there warm, unsweaty, looking up at the stars. Sleep came easy, uninterrupted. We hiked more miles than we had in weeks. Since Cascade Locks the heat and climbs had worn us down, but this night, mosquito-bitten and dirt-streaked, everything felt perfect.
The Road to Sisters
The morning after Olallie, Neapolitan and I split as usual. I left early, chasing quiet miles.
On the charred stretch of road I spotted Kangaroo, someone I’d only met in passing as we left Olallie. What I thought was a fleeting encounter turned into a day-long journey together. We traded stories, laughed through the rain, and even climbing the steep ascent to Mt. Jefferson felt lighter. I can’t recall the details of our conversations now, only the warmth of having company. A journey alone became a journey shared. We camped together under the stars and faced the beauty of Mt. Jefferson.
We planned to meet again in Sisters. The weather swung between blistering heat and storms as Neapolitan and I pushed ahead, while Kangaroo allowed herself more time. The next morning I crossed paths with Army, a fellow social worker.
We shared pieces of our lives. We talked about his family, his business, and my own world until lunchtime pulled us apart. Neapolitan caught up as I wrapped around Three Fingered Jack, its red rock ridges and jagged peaks briefly distracting me from the sun.
By afternoon we reached the road just as the storm broke. Rain came down in sheets, but a couple scooped us up, our soaked packs on our laps, gratitude spilling out with every “thank you.”
They dropped us at The Left Coast Lodge, Kangaroo’s suggestion. There we met Owl, a past PCT hiker, another stranger-turned-friend who settled in this small town. Within hours Kangaroo messaged me saying she decided to come in early. What began as a loose plan for dinner unraveled into days together including coffee and laundry, a long afternoon at Sisters Coffee, shared rooms, and shared meals.
Owl joined in, and whatever gifts arrived from others like spices or extra donuts, we passed forward. It became its own little trail family, reluctant to leave. But eventually we hitched out together, another act of kindness carrying us.
Storms at the Observation Tower
At Youth Camp I picked up new shoes and our resupply, but the shoes betrayed me. They were tight and numbing my toes as we faced the lava fields ahead. I hoped they’d stretch. They didn’t. When hail and lightning crashed over us, Kangaroo and I pushed on, laughing at the absurdity of shrieking in the storm, me swapping to sandals as the sky cracked open.
By midday we sought shelter, stumbling upon the observation tower. It was meant to be a lunch stop, but the rain returned, and suddenly the tower became our home. Hikers and tourists alike came and went, each one welcomed with jokes “come in!” as if we owned the place. Sweets wandered in after Kangaroo’s trip to the bathroom, and to our surprise, this was the same hiker I photographed with Trash Panda. A random encounter became a friendship.
Kindness flowed in from all directions: a German couple in a van made oat milk lattes, another family with a dog shared coffee, cheese, and roast beef. It was as if the trail itself conspired to remind us, as Sweets said, “real angels live out here.”
Separation, Bend, and Shelter Cove
We continued hiking on through the storms, making fires in meadows, drying clothes, and clinging to fleeting warmth.
But my feet ached too much. I couldn’t go on in those shoes. As the storm reignited in the sky, Neapolitan and I detoured into Bend, and separated briefly from our new friends. We were determined to get back to them in Shelter Cove. Taking a short alternate down to a road we were lucky enough to find a hitch with Mike, a stranger who became our chauffeur and storyteller. Another California transplant who ended up in Bend, we shared stories recalling San Diego spots we’d once visited too. Pure serendipity. He drove us back the next day, and with new shoes on my feet, it was as though we’d never left.
Our determination to meet up with our friends was strong. We hiked big miles out from where we left off. On the final day into Shelter Cove it started pouring rain, so we decided to find a route to the nearest road. We very quickly got another hitch after hiking several miles on the road. She kindly offered to take us all the way to the resort. Once at Shelter Cove we reunited with Kangaroo and Sweets. Neapolitan poked his head out of the car and all I could hear were their squeals of excitement. This would be Sweets’ last night on trail.
That night we celebrated with huckleberry wine, firelit stories, and resupplies stacked like treasure. The next morning, we said our goodbyes to Sweets and continued on toward Crater Lake. It was several days out but we finished strong. A handful of 20 mile days and we already made it to the outskirts of the park. We made the decision to hike on the road and within moments a young man named Hank, traveling solo from Seattle, gave us our hitch into the park.
Our hitch turned into shared meals, a swim in the glistening lake, a hike together around the rim, and laughter tangled with the wind off the crater. And a more than joyous surprise, was Sweets and their family joining us on a whim for photos and snacks for Kangaroo’s final stretch of her journey. Our hiking journey as a group might have been coming to an end, but the connection we all had carried on.
At the end of the nine mile stretch Kangaroo finished her section at the rim. And as we said our goodbyes and we watched her get her hitch into town, ours arrived soon after. A friendly couple with their dog Mufasa gave us a ride back to Mazama Village. We chatted about our experiences and I suggested for them to see Crater Lake at sunrise. They mentioned it was difficult for them to get up early, but they would try. In our excitement we exchanged information. Hoping to meet each other again, since they were planning to take their adventure all the way to Los Angeles, CA.
At the end of the day, Hank roomed with us at the lodge before heading his own way. Each encounter, each meal, each hitch felt too perfectly timed to be random. Our final night in Mazama Village we camped and cleaned our laundry, eager to continue on the trail and finish Oregon.
Full Circle
The next day, Neapolitan and I planned to hike on. We had to take a side trail up to the main road to connect to the PCT. As we hiked up the steep slope to the road, Neapolitan said, “I’m feeling really good, how are you feeling?” I paused to collect my thoughts. “Maybe ask me after I climb this hill,” I joked. Within moments, as if the mountain gods had it out to get me, I was stung by a Yellowjacket. Unfortunate for us, I’m allergic and so my heel swelled fast. Yet another derailment.
We decided to hitch into Medford to rest and regroup. Through frustration and tears I agreed. Thankfully we were on a road so it shouldn’t be too difficult.
Not even ten minutes passed and a car came by, Neapolitan stuck his thumb out. The car that pulled over? Rachel and David…with their dog Mufasa. The same couple who’d given us a ride the day before with Hank. They were on their way back from that early morning sunrise at Crater Lake. We had joked about getting a meal together, and now here they were, inviting us back to their van, serving breakfast, and driving us to Medford.
I sat there, foot swollen, but heart full. In less than a month, we had been carried from one stranger to the next, each act of kindness stitched into the story of this trail. Coincidence? Maybe. But it felt like something more. Like the trail itself was alive, weaving us into its own design. Perhaps we all have something to learn from trail life.
Reflections
Events themselves are neither wholly good nor bad. What seems like misfortune may later reveal itself as a blessing.
Stats in the Wilderness:
Temperature Range: Low 32°- High 93 °
General Location: Timberline Lodge, OR to Ashland, OR
Ascent: 37,629.6 ft. (135.847/mile)
Descent: 37,487.9 ft. ( 135.335/mile)
Whose land am I on? Learn why it’s important to respect the land we travel on.
