Thru-Hiking for Brown Muslim Girls: Reflections After 2,650 Miles on Foot

The story of migration weaves its way into the lives of every generation in my family. My Nani was the first, embarking on a journey by boat that brought her to a new land and indefinitely separated her from her parents when the borders of Pakistan and India were arbitrarily drawn by the British. My parents came next, crossing the Atlantic in search of a better life and saying goodbye to communities full of people who loved them, only to be met with uninterested neighbors, bland food, and kids who couldn’t fully learn their language, customs, or history. With each passing generation, we lose fragments of ourselves, never discussing the pain or taking the opportunity to grieve. After all, what did Mama and Baba know of India, when it was too painful for their parents to speak of it? What did I know of Pakistan when we could rarely go back to visit? 

The challenges I face as a child of desi, Muslim immigrants growing up in the suburbs of Baltimore are less tangible than for those who came before me. In spite of my privilege, invisible cords tighten around my neck, woven by cultural expectations demanding that I conform to predefined roles. The desi script suggests that I focus my energy on the home, pursue education within limits, and avoid venturing too ambitiously into the uncharted territory of personal dreams and fulfillment. I should get married, focus on raising children, dutifully dote on my husband, and be grateful for all that has been given to me. The recipe for a good Brown girl. The American script is no better; it makes fun of the way my food smells, gives my hijab-toting mom suspicious glances post-9/11, and “others” anyone who isn’t white. I am caught between two worlds, never fully belonging in either.

“There are so few Black and Brown folx engaged in backpacking and thru-hiking, that it seems impossible to find mentorship or imagine myself being a part of this community. ”

— Soophia

As I reach my mid-20s, I discover joy in spending time outdoors and all that doing so can heal. I learned about how mycelia are all connected underground, how the trees communicate with each other, and the work indigenous people have been doing to protect the earth long before I was here. In nature, I seek collective community and belonging.

Eventually, I learned about this thing called thru-hiking and immediately brushed the idea aside. Brown girls, Brown Muslim girls, who look like me, don’t do things like this. We don’t backpack, we don’t live outdoors, and we certainly don’t venture out alone. The audacity to take up so much space in the outdoors has traditionally only been reserved for white people.

There are so few Black and Brown folx engaged in backpacking and thru-hiking, that it seems impossible to find mentorship or imagine myself being a part of this community. Still, I find myself subconsciously planning for a thru-hike over the years; I slowly gather gear, go on my first backpacking trips, and finally, find myself getting a permit for the Pacific Crest Trail.

One of the hardest parts in planning the thru-hike isn’t the logistics, the fear of snakes, or the journey to get in shape. The true challenge lies in defying the expectations of my communities who believe they know what is best for me. When Nani discovers my plans, she struggles to comprehend how her family migrated in pursuit of a quieter life, yet here I am in search of the opposite.

Embarking on a thru-hike becomes a symbolic rebellion against the plans laid out for me. It is a journey that not only traverses physical terrains but also challenges the deeply ingrained beliefs of both Eastern and Western societies. The perplexed disappointment from her and Mama is palpable, and I grapple with the weight of going against the very people who shaped me and sacrificed so much for me.

Telling my mother-in-law, Ammi, that I am leaving her son for six months to walk from Mexico to Canada proves to be the hardest part of planning for a thru-hike. I navigate between the Western ideals my family finds too unfamiliar and the brown nuances America struggles to accept; too Western for my family, yet too Brown for America.

Ammi takes the news of my plans with shock, and though she doesn’t understand it, a miracle happens. She does not try to stop me. She tells me to go find what I am looking for, to fulfill a dream that was never an option for her to begin with. Soon, whispers in our community begin; how could she just let her go? Ammi carries the weight of this judgment and does not make me bear it. I am venturing out alone, but I have her and many others lifting me up.

On the trail, I do not find a community, or a perfectly harmonious tramily (trail family). I make friends, but it is clear many of them don’t have many (or any) Muslim or brown friends back home. There are few Black and Brown folks and even fewer Muslim hikers. Marginalized communities have historically faced exclusion from recreational outdoor activities, and the PCT mirrors this disparity. Many people I meet do not cherish the land we walk upon; I hear conversations about conquering summits when I want to kiss the earth for providing me so much, not wrangle it.

I miss my family, my husband, and my friends who are tender and soft. They send me care packages and letters, and each item I receive brings tears to my eyes. I probably cry more on the trail than I have in my 20s collectively. The tears are endless, overwhelming, like a dam that has opened wide.

Something unexpected happens while I am on the trail. Originally staunchly opposed to my thru-hike, my parents become my supporters and advocates. They, along with Ammi and Nani, send me words of encouragement, make dua for me, send me care packages, and shoo away anyone who questions why I’m walking from Mexico to Canada.

Even at their respective ages, even after all they have lived through and lost, they are finding new ways to challenge their own selves and grow. Sometimes I think immigrants are resistant to any more change because they fear we might lose what little remains of our past. But here is my family, defying expectations and leaving me in awe.

I hike through snow, rivers, mud, hail, wind, lava rocks, lightning storms, rain, and more. I climb icy mountain passes during a historical snow year, swim in alpine lakes, and spend afternoons identifying which berries I can eat. I learned how to use an ice-axe, miss eating daal chawal but settle for mac and cheese, and wake up regularly to frozen socks and shoes. I develop blisters and back pain, sunburn, and odd tan lines. I make new friends, I meet people who do not share the same values as me, and every now and then, I find myself alone in the woods.

Weeks turn into months and hundreds of miles turn into a couple thousand. Six months later, though I am never 100% sure I will finish, not until the very last day—I find my 2,650-mile journey is over. 

All the aunties showing up for me

I return home, officially as a thru-hiker, and to my disbelief, find that Mama and Baba have thrown me a surprise party. Every aunty, uncle, friend, and cousin comes. I answer questions about the trail and they all listen in pin-drop silence. I didn’t know a large room full of brown people could get so quiet, my own Nikkah ceremony wasn’t this quiet.

They see their daughters in me, and maybe for the first time, it dawns upon them that girls who look like us can and should attempt unthinkable dreams and take up space in places that have historically been reserved for white people. Nani and Ammi call, their faces lit up with marvel and wonder at what I have done. I do not know what to do with this attention and respect, it makes me feel an outpouring of love for this community that raised me and is still finding new ways to evolve.

My husband tells me often that I am the most free out of all of us, and yet, it is not enough. He asks me when it will be, when I will finally rest, and I don’t have a good answer. I see that my journey isn't just mine; true freedom is interconnected, and none of us are actually free until all of us are free. One week after returning from my thru-hike, I watched the death toll in Gaza rise and felt the tightness of the cage that Black and Brown people have been trying to escape for generations. I am the closest to freedom out of all of them. I feel immense gratitude for all who have let me stand on their shoulders and also shame that I have not brought them along with me.

The dream I seek extends beyond personal liberation. It is a yearning for a world where innocent lives are not disrupted by the horrors of conflict, where displacement is not a consequence, and where the simple act of walking is not a response to forced migration or the threat of hunger and bombs. It envisions a future where Black and Brown people can roam freely in the outdoors, finding healing and solace from all our ancestors endured to get us here. As I navigate my own uncharted paths, I carry with me the hope that journeys like mine will also be reserved for others who look like me; a world where freedom is not an elusive dream but a shared reality for all.