In late May, Shilletha Curtis published her memoir about hiking the Appalachian Trail. A week later, Curtis, who is also known by her trail name “Dragonsky,” completed the final leg of the 2,190-mile pathway.

　　Her journey had begun nearly four years earlier. In 2020, Curtis—unemployed after COVID-19 ravaged the veterinary office where she worked, her longtime struggles with mental health then spiraling—had heard about the iconic American footpath during a stroll in a New York state park. The idea of walking from Georgia to Maine filled her with wonder and intrigue, providing a sense of possibility during that deeply bleak spell. But as she began to explore the logistics of a thru-hike, the barriers to entry for a Black queer woman who had long struggled with suicidal ideation and hospitalization seemed immense, from encountering potential racism to affording the privilege of not working. After solidifying a clutch of sponsorships and a gig writing for the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, Curtis, then 28, set out from Springer Mountain in February 2021, finishing the bulk of the trail by that November.

　　Pack Light: A Journey to Find Myself shares the story not only of the trail but the travails that led Curtis to it. One of the most unflinching and candid Appalachian Trail memoirs in recent memory, it frames the trail as a kind of existential test, a gauntlet by which you can decide if you want to carry on—northward to Maine, onward with life. And so, when Curtis, now 32, knocked out those final miles just after releasing Pack Light in May, it was its own kind of happy ending, a proof of a life sustained and enhanced by going outside.

　　OUTSIDE: Your journey on the Appalachian Trail began, at least in part, with a question you posted to Facebook that generated lots of attention: “Should I be concerned as a Black woman hiking in the South?” Now that you’ve finished it, how would you have responded to your own question?

　　I would not do the AT again. It’s not the trail where I feel safest. I would section hike it, yes, but I don’t feel safe hiking through Eastern Tennessee, Georgia, or southern Virginia. But the Continental Divide Trail is the best experience of my life, and I want to do it again and again and again. I remember starting in East Glacier, Montana, and I was sitting around with all these queer thru-hikers, people of color, international people. People were looking out for me on the CDT—‘Watch out for Lincoln, watch out for this town.’ They had my six. And in New Mexico, people were hugging me, telling me I’m beautiful, giving me water. There is such a difference between the West and the history of the Appalachians—the heavy Civil War history, the history of enslavement, the Confederacy. On the AT, I would still be concerned about my safety.

　　How early in your Appalachian Trail hike did you first feel threatened?

　　I was setting up my tent within the first two weeks, and a white man comes over to me and says, “How can you say the word ‘n___’ and I can’t?” I don’t know who this man is, and he immediately starts talking about how he has a Black niece. I was flabbergasted, mouth ajar. He said, “I just want to have this conversation, because you’re the first Black person I saw on trail.” And then I was featured in the Appalachian Trail’s Journeys magazine, and someone saw it. “I know who you are,” he said, immediately just mad. “You’re the racist that writes about racism, and you get handouts.” And another white hiker was in the corner, and he says, “I understand what it’s like to be you, because I am white and poor.” I went off, because everyone in this room had just said they were allies. But they were sitting in silence, looking at me like I’m the villain for speaking up.

　　You have suggested compiling a Green Book for hiking, similar to the “Bible of Black travel” that guided folks to safe resources during Jim Crow. And on the Continental Divide Trail, you would sometimes leave comments on the FarOut app advising people of color not to visit certain places. What would a Green Book look like on trail?

　　On the AT, I was very careful about what I was writing in FarOut or trail registers. That was my first hike, so I was not as outspoken. When I saw one hostel with a Confederate flag, though, I said that. But I wasn’t like “Hey, BIPOC LGBTQIA, this is a good place. Look out for this!” But I got injured in 2022 on the CDT, so I thought about how I could create awareness on trail. I was also hiking with two trans folks, so I thought I needed to take a stand, to use my platform to say what these towns are like. The things they have to think about, I don’t have to worry about. People were looking out for me, so I wanted to look out for people.

　　I show up on trail. I hike. But, as an individual, I can only do so much. I have a platform. I can call out companies, like talking about access to gear. But looking at the Green Book and what it was used for in the past, I thought, “How can I create change?” There are places that are sketch. But there are places like Woods Hole and Angel’s Rest in Virginia and The Notch Hostel in New Hampshire where you have real allies. I don’t want people to get into a situation like I got into—tired and hypothermic, at a hostel with a Confederate flag and people following me. “OK, what do I do now?” The Green Book is a project that would entail me going back through the trails, but I feel very passionate about it. I want other people who look like me to have good experiences, to feel welcomed. I want to say, “Here are safe places, people who will really advocate for you.” We’re not going to continue a cycle of silence.

　　Your hiking life also began with this childlike wonder at the very possibility of walking from Georgia to Maine. You’ve done that now, as well as the CDT. So why do you hike right now?

　　The mountains show me that I want to live. Any time I take a step on a mountain, I know there’s a drop right here. But I am being cautious, because I am choosing to live. That’s what mountains and the AT really taught me about life: When I’m feeling depressed and I have suicidal ideation, I think, “Go to the mountains. If you’re standing on the edge, you’re not going to want to fall off that ridge.” When I started the AT, I thought it was about representation for me. That’s still true, but I had to dig deeper into myself to say, “What do I want?” It was thru-hiking that first taught me that I really want to live. No matter what, I can run to the mountains, scream, throw rocks, hug trees, stick my face in the river, dance. That makes me choose life.

　　The Appalachian Trail Conservancy helped fund your first hike after a staff member saw that first Facebook post about race. You’ve talked about how much that changed your life and sense of possibility. Are these direct diversity grants, scholarships, and gigs the fastest way to boost representation on trail?

　　The Appalachian Trail Conservancy really gave me wings to fly. I’d just lost my job. It was COVID. I was mourning my job. I didn’t know how life would make the way to hike. But I felt heard. And that is how you make change, pouring your money into representation of people you don’t normally see on trail—queer people, people of color. If you want to see representation, you have to meet people halfway.

　　But I wouldn’t say it’s the fastest route. I don’t think you can just throw money at anything and fix it. It’s more in combination with education about representation. I wouldn’t have gotten on trail if I hadn’t researched if Black people actually did this and come across Akuna and Chardonnay. Seeing someone that looks like you in conjunction with funding in conjunction with reflecting [diversity with] your staff. I grew up in north New Jersey, so this was white people shit. I was even in Atlanta last week, and people were still like, “Black people don’t hike!” I do.