
This article is written by Kara “Mama Kubwa” Richardson Whitely. It originally appeared in the Winter 2021 edition of the Long Trail News under the headline “The Miles that Matter.”
Tune in to Kara’s upcoming speaking program with GMC, “Moving Mountains: Overcoming Obstacles in 2022 and Beyond,” on Thursday, January 27, 2022 at 7 p.m. Kara will share tales from her climbs up Kilimanjaro, the Long Trail, and everywhere in between while inspiring you to bet on yourself, take bold risks, and excel.
Why’d I hike the Long Trail?
On a sullen, rainy quarantine day, I listened in to my friend Mirna Valerio’s online Fat Girl Running webinar in my bat cave attic office — my hideout from my kids who were constantly around. I wasn’t an ultramarathon runner like Mirna but we had a lot in common as plus-size adventurers taking on trails few people expect us to.
We both believe strongly in hiking our own hikes. Do what makes us feel joy. And do it at our own paces.
As I listened, I felt compelled to pull out my well-worn copy of The Complete Long Trail Guide. I was a bit Zoom-ed out so I spent this bonus alone time charting out the mileage of the 272-mile path based on road crossings in a Google spreadsheet as I listened in. Maybe it was desperation as I wanted to focus on numbers other than the nation’s coronavirus death toll, which was barreling toward 100,000.
While there were only 16 deaths in my hometown of Summit, there were 1,078 in my county and 11,770 in my state. Each one a set of dreams and wishes. That alone was an unbearable loss for each of the families.
Numbers. Each day was filled with so many numbers. We didn’t want to be the next ones.
We were left with a terrible paradox, we were each realizing the fragility of life as people younger than us were sick and not surviving. And we couldn’t make use of this time, couldn’t leave to explore the world and make headway on our dreams. The safest place was at home and on the trail.
Especially on this day with a deluge pummeling down on the sidewalks mirroring my mood. I opened my window in my attic office to let air in, angled just so to avoid the driving rain from hitting my desk. The square window with poorly painted muntins, teetered on rusty hinges. I had been meaning to replace it for years.
The days, the weeks, the months ticked away like years. Life before mid-March 2020 became something like a dream. A memory that was captured on my United and Hilton apps that sat dormant on my phone. The pings or rewards of traveling the globe were long gone. Instead, I was still. And thankfully, still here, alive.
While I knew from hiking in high altitude, I have strong lungs, I was troubled by how Covid-19 was hitting those with obesity harder. The outcomes lead to respirators. Respirators led to refrigerated trucks.
On this day, I wanted to think of something else. I wanted to feel one morsel of control in this world that had been pulled out from me. I did so by putting a different set of numbers on a chart.
Planning the Mileage
I wasn’t one for spreadsheets, but after my Long Trail plan had so many fits and starts and as my Google calendar was wiped clean, this exercise in planning was exhilarating. (Even more so than my mid-day hill walk between Mirna’s sessions).
The spreadsheet shoed, line by line, that no stretch between roads was longer than 20 miles, with shelters and campsites provided. That meant that I could do it bit by bit, mile by mile. It didn’t have to be a one and done effort — something that I had dreamed about for years. This was a notion that I had to erase about my weight as well, as it surged over the 300-pound mark once again.
It was easy to understand why I was locked into thinking that hiking had to be all or nothing. Over the years, I’ve befriended record-setting hikers and ultramarathoners. The ones who see a path such as The Long Trail and they calculate the fastest time they can do it in. They speak in acronyms such as FKT (Fastest Known Times), telling stories of people who have hiked through the night — spurning sleep for success.
My friend Jennifer Pharr Davis is a legendary distance hiker who completed the Long Trail in seven days in 2007. I’d be lucky to do the LT in the time it took Jennifer to do the entire 2,193-mile Appalachian Trail — 46 days, averaging 47 miles a day. But who’s counting.
Record setting wasn’t my reality. My training stalled as I juggled homeschooling, online grocery shopping, and closed trails. What was important was that I started.
I called Jennifer for advice. She gave me great tips: take a sleeping quilt instead of a bag, walk backwards down the trickiest slopes, and use poles. But most importantly she reminded me to avoid this mistake: “Most people focus on the miles they didn’t do instead of celebrating the ones they did.”
The Long Trail fully reopened on May 22, 2020. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Social distancing and Covid-19 restrictions were still very much in effect. Shelters were closed. And because of a late snow season, many paths were still packed in ice.
Vermont rental homes were opening up in mid-June, so we planned to park ourselves in Vermont; New Jersey had one of the highest death tolls. Our family could limit exposure by adventuring outdoors, and give our kids and au pair Camille a desperately needed change of scenery when I was on trail.
I would start from Massachusetts and aim for a nice, round 100 miles in 30 days, rather than the daunting length of the state. My friend Allie, already in Vermont, volunteered to come along. The constant tension of fight or flight and the exhaustion I’d developed during the pandemic had already pushed me to my limit, so spending a month going up and down mountains seemed like a breeze.
This wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.
The Miles that Matter
The hike started like many others: in fits. Allie and I hiked during the week while my husband worked. I returned home many evenings and weekends to spend time with my family and relieve Camille of child care. We did some overnights and many day hikes, sometimes adding a mile or two of side trails to get back to the main drag each day.
Sometimes Allie and I talked. Other times we would go quiet, zoning in on each step and calming the voices in our minds. I felt only the sweat on my brow, as if trapped in a terrarium: early June was unseasonably hot. In my discomfort, zoning in was soothing. It kept me going.
A few days in we met Double D. He was 260 miles in, a day from finishing. He still had a spring in his step and a smile on his face as he described the rocks and ledges in the north as “slippery but fun.”
As he headed south I shouted, “Hey, congrats in advance for finishing.”
Before he trotted on, he looked back at us with a welcoming smile, “Congratulations to you too. For being here.”
Occasionally I yearned for a glorious view, some payoff for the many, many steps through the forested canopy.
So I was eager to reach Baker Peak, which my Guthook app said was “a rocky outcrop with a good view.” I was unexpectedly challenged by the rock scramble to the top. Steep drop-offs waited on either side should I lose my footing. It was terrifying and difficult, but on that incline there was no way I was turning around and going back down.
So often in such moments of struggle my mind fills with contradictory conversations. I can’t do this. Yes, I can. This mental and emotional vacillation clouds any accomplishment or goal in the midst of it. It wasn’t fun, but I faced the uncertainty and made it through.

After making it down Baker, we set up our tents near Big Branch Shelter and soaked our feet in the stream. The sound of rushing water lulled us to sleep.
The following day was a gorgeous hike along the stream and through quiet and magical pine forests. It wasn’t until then that I could see how far I had come. In the stillness I saw what an astounding feat I had done overcoming my mind and the mountains.
Jennifer’s voice rang in my mind: celebrate the miles you did do, don’t dwell on the ones you didn’t.
I left the Long Trail with no certificate of completion, but having taken myself farther than I had believed I could go. GMC has preserved this journey for more than 100 years, so I know it will be there for me when I decide to take more footsteps. While the average time for a thru-hike is 23 days, we all have a lifetime to do it.
Driving down Route 7 with my family and a strawberry ice cream after summiting Killington, sunset in the background, I pointed out the ridgeline to my kids. “That’s where I left off my hike,” I said.
“You’ve hiked all of that?” seven-year-old Emily said with disbelief.
“Yes, I did. All the way from Massachusetts,” I said in my own
disbelief.
“That’s a lot,” she said.
“Yes. Yes, it is,” I said.
Kara Richardson Whitely is the author of Gorge: My Journey Up Kilimanjaro at 300 Pounds. Kara is a motivational speaker, an influencer, and an advisor helping brands connect with the 67 percent of women size 12 and above. Follow her adventures on Instagram @kararichardsonwhitely or on LinkedIn, and tune in for her Taylor Series talk with GMC on January 27.
I stumbled across you as I am wanting section hike the AT. Also a plus size trying to find appropriate shoes & such. Even things like trekking poles lightweight might not be supportive enough. Ofcourse lightweight stuff weighs less do ounces aren’t that important. Planning to hike my own hike & reading others, most are in their 20’s & beautiful bodies & souls. I am old, fat & have lived a real life of fun & deaths of loved ones. Ready to hike my own & enjoy the scenery. You are an inspiration. Thank you.