Mile 65 was not our best moment. Sweat dripping, red-faced, screaming in fury: “Eat the fruit bar!!” “No! I’m not eating your &%$#@ fruit bar!! I have my own food!” He grabbed the wheat wrap out of my hands and flung it deep into the ferns rooted in the shadows beyond the trail. “Now look what you’ve done, you idiot!” I yelled, stabbing my hiking pole into the soft earth. “Eat the @#$% fruit bar!!” “NO!!”

We exchanged a battery of curse words as we both stood our ground, fists clenched, facing off as if at war with a detested enemy. He stormed off in a rage, “Do whatever the hell you want! Just stay away from me!”

Blistered, tender feet were ignored; the weight of our backpacks forgotten. The fatigue that had led me to stop for the now-cursed snack was replaced by a renewed anger-fueled vigor. I stayed inches behind him as we charged along the path, refusing to give him space, exchanging continued barbs…

As a western Pennsylvania native, hiking the Laurel Highlands trail had been my idea. But when it came time to pack, I was reluctant to commit. “It’s going to be incredibly hot. We should have gone last month. Hiking in June is going to be too humid and buggy.”

My husband - ever the stoic - didn’t respond, remaining focused on carefully doling out oatmeal into individual baggies.

“We really aren’t taking a tent? We’re just going to sleep in the open shelters, exposed to the elements and creatures of the night? Possibly rabid!” — Zero reaction. —

“We’re going to get eaten alive by mosquitoes. Mice live in those shelters, you know… and where there are mice, there are snakes,” I continued. “And what about storms? Just last week, the wind was so strong, it blew trees down all over the neighborhood. Imagine a storm like that when we’re out there…”

Sliding his thumb and forefinger across the top of each baggie, he sealed his breakfast packets, finally turned to look at me and sighed.

“Go or don’t go. It doesn't matter to me. But this isn’t like you.” He disappeared into the bedroom.

I sat on our fluffy blue couch, appreciating the air conditioning and dreading six days of walking with a loaded pack in the heat. But he had a point. We had hiked all over the world: through snowfields in Nepal, above the clouds in Tanzania, through a monsoon in California… this little outing was a walk in the park in comparison. I was annoyed with my pathetic foot-dragging. Where was this coming from? Since when had I become so soft and fearful?

My eyes drifted to Michael Easter’s book, The Comfort Crisis, lying on the table. I hadn’t read it yet, but the subtitle advocated that we “Embrace Discomfort to Reclaim Your Wild, Happy, Healthy Self”.

Maybe this litany of excuses and dubious fears was the sign of a comfort crisis. Since returning to Pittsburgh a few months ago after living abroad for several years, I admittedly relished being comfortable. In my hometown, I speak the language, know the culture, and can operate appliances with confidence. I am well-connected with family and friends. Familiarity and the routine that evolves around a settled life were grounding… maybe too grounding. Maybe a growing attachment to comfort was dulling my sense of adventure.

I had to shake off this negativity, get out there, and embrace discomfort — prove to myself that, at 53 years of age, I still had energy, vigor and enthusiasm for life. I packed for Go.

Day one on Pennsylvania’s Laurel Highlands Trail

The Laurel Highlands Hiking Trail starts in Ohiopyle, along the banks of the wild and tempestuous Youghiogheny River. After a series of aggressive roller-coaster hills, the trail moderately undulates across western Pennsylvania’s highland ridges at an elevation of around 2,500 feet. Start to finish is 70 miles, with 3-sided adirondack-style shelters every 10-15 miles. In June, the trail is lush, with a kaleidoscope of green in all directions. Ferns are thigh-high and mountain laurels — the state flower and area namesake — bloom in white and pink clusters on sunny slopes.

We hit the trail after a drenching rainstorm. Freshly showered, the forest smelled wet and clean. Water flowed swiftly along the path like a creek; actual creeks swelled into turbulent white falls tumbling down the steep slopes of the Allegheny foothills. Birds chirped in the waning afternoon sun. The miles ticked by and sweat soaked my shirt. It was, indeed, hot and humid. But as I lay in my sleeping bag that night, staring into a moonlit field, I had to admit that the firefly show was better than Netflix.

Each morning on the trail, I woke to sunlight filtering through the leaves and a cool, faint breeze. None of my concocted fears about staying in an open shelter were realized - no blood-thirsty mice, no rabid raccoons, no snakes curled at my feet; we were not crushed by a falling tree. We dealt with mosquitoes, sweat, and blisters -- annoyances, but not true threats to life or limb. I relaxed and began reconnecting with my inner wild child, that part of me that secretly loves the freedom of unruly hair and a nude face. On the trail, there’s no judgment. I had forgotten how liberating that is.

Hiking on the east coast, elevation was not a problem. Instead, as the initial thrill of simply being in the embrace of nature waned, we faced the monotony of an endless verdant tunnel through a repetitive scenery of hemlocks, mossy boulders, ferns, and laurel. With the exception of passing through a local ski resort closed for the summer season, there were no discernible landmarks or viewpoints that typically cue forward progression or offer a sense of “destination”. Day after day, we plodded along, one tender foot in front of the other, wincing at the occasional rock hidden underfoot. The humidity was inescapable. We bathed in our own sweat and the need for a shower dominated my thoughts.

Miles of green promotes introspection. When I wasn’t daydreaming about hot running water and the fragrant smell of soap, I pondered the line between discomfort and pain, distraction and focus. Swollen feet, sweat-soaked clothes, red-tinted iron-tasting filtered water, itchy bug bites and a developing heat rash - while uncomfortable, none were show-stoppers. These discomforts were, in fact, life affirming, tangible, “present” conditions. In the cozy confines of an air-conditioned living space, my mind buzzes with a constant hum of future planning, abstract worries, or vague anxieties about events beyond my sphere of control. Distractions, really. Here, on the trail, self-affecting discomforts had my full attention. “I can’t control climate change, politics, or global events”, I thought to myself, “but I can control how I respond to sweat and fatigue.” Empowering!

We completed an average of half a marathon a day, painfully building trail legs, taking brief breaks for lunch or a random foot bath in a cool stream. With full packs in the rising heat, ascending and descending, the days were physically demanding and mentally taxing, but I refused to be negative. “Embrace discomfort” was my mantra and I was crushing it.

Day six. Our last day on the trail, we woke before dawn, donned headlamps and swished through the dewy undergrowth, logging miles before the sun set the air on fire. We walked with mission and purpose, ready to be finished; ready for a frosty beer. Six hours passed. Feeling a little woozy from hunger and heat, I stopped for a snack.

Cue the Mile 65 screaming match — and subsequent scattershot of volatile emotions that erupted without warning. Discomfort had just been dialed up one final notch.

We stormed along the path, arguing like mad banshees over a fruit bar. I stayed inches behind my husband, lobbing spiteful jabs… “You always do this! You always try to fix everything. I had everything under control. If I wanted your @#$% fruit bar, I’d have asked for it… You just can’t stand not being a hero…”

Harsh words eventually petered out to silence… our pace slackened….

By Mile 66, the firestorm had blown over, replaced by a flush of embarrassment and some shared chuckles over the whole ridiculous, unforeseen blow-up. We waited a bit for our friend and co-hiker, Dan, to catch up. Dan just rolled his eyes. “Heat gets to you,” is all he said.

We finished the final four miles of the trail in good spirits. Our shouting match had been ugly and uncomfortable, but oddly cathartic. Senses heightened and emotions charged, I felt alive.

Back in the comfort of clean sheets, a coffee pot, and climate control, Michael Easter’s subtitle proved correct - I am feeling happier and more content after a walk on the wild side. But not for the reasons I expected. I entered the trail seeking physical discomfort as some sort of cure for ennui. But I found that true discomfort isn’t blistered feet or bug bites - it’s emotional exposure. It’s unleashing a torrent of pent-up feelings on a loved one at Mile 65 over a fruit bar… and then laughing about it 15 minutes later. And maybe that’s the real lesson of this Laurel Highlands adventure: happiness doesn’t come from air conditioning or feats of endurance, but by making peace with your own imperfect humanity.