Walking Through Wonderland

111 miles. 26,407 feet of gain. Eight days. One knee screaming the whole way.

Hey friend,

Please excuse the hiatus! I’m human. I think I needed a summer to go off.

One of the experiences that greatly impacted me was The Wonderland Trail.

Back in 2020, I was road-tripping the Pacific Northwest when I first saw it on a map: a loop circling Mount Rainier called The Wonderland Trail. Just the name did something to me. Wonder land. It sounded like a dare wrapped in magic.

I tucked it away in the back of my mind. Someday…

Fast forward, and my buddy Pat calls: "Yo, I got a permit for the Wonderland Trail."

That was it. No more someday. Wonderland was calling.

Act One: The Leap

I showed up underprepared, over-packed, and overly optimistic. The day before we hit the trail, we did a REI run that showcased my talent for acquiring items "just in case."

My backpack weighed as much as a overfed toddler—stuffed with clothes, food, tent, Aqua tabs, camera gear (because of course), and a bunch of "essentials" that weren't actually essential.

We set out buzzing with excitement. Little did I know we'd be descending 6,000 feet on day one. My knees weren't ready for that conversation.

Because I'd gone with zero-drop Altras—wide toe box but basically no support. My calves and achilles had never experienced this level of "character building." They were about to get an education.

My Osprey backpack took some getting used to, the sides grinding my hip points raw like sandpaper.

15 miles with a 45-pound pack on day one…

That night, lying sore in my tent, I thought: What have I gotten myself into?

Act Two: The Breaking Point

By day two, Wonderland showed both its teeth and its beauty.

The forest wrapped around us, alive and damp and impossibly green. Wild blueberries lined the trail like nature's candy stand. We ate them by the handful, fingers stained purple, laughing like kids who'd discovered dessert growing from bushes.

Then my knee betrayed me. Sharp, unrelenting pain with every step. I'd never had knee issues before, but now it felt like my left leg had filed for divorce.

Here's the kicker about Wonderland: it doesn't give you an easy out. 111 miles. 26,407 feet up and down. It's like stacking four marathons, only with a forty-pound pack gnawing at your shoulders. And because of the permit system, you have to reach the next campsite each night—no matter how bad you hurt.

I leaned on my poles like crutches. I stretched, limped, adjusted, prayed. I swallowed ibuprofen like communion wafers. Nothing silenced the pain.

At Devil's Dream, mosquitoes descended like a biblical plague. The swarm was so thick I thought I might get airlifted away by sheer bug power. My knee pulsed, my blood drained, and I hobbled through the absurdity: This is Wonderland? Knee revolt and mosquito armies?

But here's the truth: that's the crucible. Pain strips you down until all that's left are questions. What are you made of? What do you do when the pain doesn't quit? Who do you trust—your grit, or something bigger?

Step by step, I kept walking.

Act Three: The Wonder

And then—magic happened.

Trudging through snowfields, then sliding down them like kids on sleds. Waking up to hot coffee steaming against cold mountain air—nothing has ever tasted better. Breakfast with deer grazing just feet away, like we'd been invited into their dining room. Polar plunges in glacial rivers that shocked my system awake, left me gasping and grinning like an idiot.

And yes—Nerd Clusters. Those chewy, neon sugar bombs became trail currency, emotional support, and straight-up salvation.

These were the moments that made 111 miles worth it. There's the outer trail—rivers, sunsets, snow, blueberries, mosquitoes. And there's the inner trail—where solitude cracks you open and makes you look at your life with sharper eyes.

I thought about who I'm becoming. About the values I want to live by. About my children's book, inspired by my grandmother Nan. Out there, it stopped being just a project. It became a mission.

Act Four: The Why

One afternoon, I washed my face in a trailhead bathroom and caught my reflection for the first time in days.

A stranger walked up and asked about the trip. The conversation led him to say "Damn son, I wish I would've done something like that when I was your age."

That line hit like lightning. Because that's exactly why I was out there. Not just for present-me, but for future-me—the version who looks back with a smile, not regret.

The Resolution

Eight days later, after 111 miles and 26,407 feet of climbing and descending, I walked out of those woods. My body was wrecked. My knee was furious. But my spirit? Fully alive.

The Wonderland Trail didn't "fix" me. What it did was shift me. It deepened my relationship with myself. With God. With trust. With pain.

I don't do hard things just to say I did them. I do them because they peel away the layers and birth something new. They leave me raw, but also more me.

Your Wonderland

You might never hike the Wonderland Trail. And that's totally fine.

But here's my invitation: find your own version of Wonderland. It doesn't have to be 111 miles or 26,407 feet. It just has to be somewhere with no billboards, no car noise, no phone buzzing. A place where you can slow down, breathe deep, and see what surfaces.

Because Wonderland isn't just in Washington.

It's a way of seeing the world.

Be well,
—Fletch