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Grandmas on the Move

There are moments in life when we are given an unexpected invitation—not just to do something difficult, but to meet someone we have not yet become.

I’ve been reading about Grandma Gatewood—a 67-year-old grandmother from Ohio who, in the spring of 1955, told her children she was going for a walk.

She didn’t say how far. She didn’t explain why. She simply kissed them goodbye, packed a small cloth bag, and boarded a bus to Georgia. Then she began walking north on the Appalachian Trail. Alone.

She had read about the trail in a magazine. It sounded peaceful. Achievable. Beautiful. And somewhere inside her, a quiet thought formed—if others can do this, so can I.

Emma Gatewood had lived a life that required endurance long before she ever set foot on the trail—raising eleven children and surviving years of abuse before finally stepping away and creating a life of her own. By the time she began that first walk, she wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone else. She was reclaiming something that had always belonged to her.

Freedom. Strength. Self-trust. And the quiet knowing that she could keep going.

She had no backpacking equipment. She carried what she could—a blanket, a shower curtain, a few basic supplies tucked into a homemade bag slung over her shoulder. No tent. No sleeping bag. No hiking boots. No compass. Just canvas sneakers and determination.

The trail did not greet her gently. Roots caught her feet. Rocks cut through the thin soles of her shoes. Rain turned the path to mud. She fell. She got lost. At one point she twisted her ankle so badly she could barely stand.

And still… she kept going.

When people passed her, they didn’t quite know what to make of her. A small, gray-haired woman walking alone through the wilderness. Some thought she was lost. Others thought she was a little crazy. She would smile and say she just wanted to see the country.

In September of that year, she stood on the summit of Mount Katahdin in Maine, having walked more than 2,100 miles. And then she did it again. And again—into her seventies.

Fast forward to April 2004. I was 59, also a grandmother, and five years into a new career as a Realtor. A fellow agent invited me to sponsor her in riding 500 miles down the California coast for the Arthritis Foundation. I had just learned about a friend being diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis, and I found myself wanting to support whatever research could help.

Some crazy notion nudged me—what if I did the ride myself? I would surely love to meet the woman I would become by doing this. But still, I had my doubts to overcome.

I didn’t even own a bike. I would need to raise $2,500 or come up with it myself. And there was that familiar voice suggesting I might be too old—until I learned there were riders in their 70s completing the journey. Well… there went that excuse.

I love the William Murray quote, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness… the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred…”

It was certainly true for me. Once I committed, everything fell into place. A friend from church not only offered me a bike, he offered to train me. I had six months to get ready. My life became a routine of waking up at 6 a.m. to meet him on the bike trail by 7 at least four mornings a week.

I bought cycling pants with the cushioning pads, the clip-in shoes, the helmet with the rearview mirror. We rode bike trails from Sacramento to Auburn. We biked around lakes, up steep hills, and through areas where not once, but twice, I saw mountain lions. At first, I was exhausted after just a couple of miles. Even the smallest hill felt like a mountain.

But I kept showing up. Eventually, twenty miles became manageable. Then twenty-five. By the time we gathered in San Francisco in October with 250 other riders, I was ready—or at least, ready enough.

I thought we would stay in groups—kind of like the peloton riders. I soon figured out I would be mostly riding on my own. It didn’t take long for us to spread out. Each of us found our own rhythm. Every now and then I would pass someone, but more often, they waved as they passed me. I wasn’t last into the camp each night, but I was way behind the leaders.

Life got very basic very quickly. Ride. Eat. Rest. Repeat.

At the end of each day, I would find a spot to set up my tent, locate my two bags—one with clothing, one with the tent—and begin the small rituals that became everything. Inflating the sleeping mat. Finding clean clothes. Walking to the portable showers, where hot water felt like an absolute gift. Dinner. A much-needed massage. Then into the tent for sleep before it all began again.

The hills were the hardest. I made a quiet promise to myself that I would not walk my bike. There were moments I questioned that promise, but I held to it.

I remember one stretch along Highway One, heading into Big Sur. The road was narrow—no bike lane—with mountains rising on one side and the ocean dropping away on the other. I found myself calling on my angels for protection, and again and again, just when I needed it, a wide place would appear—enough room for a car to pass safely. I remember thinking, I bet those drivers think we’re crazy. I know I used to.

There were other moments too—stringing up makeshift clotheslines to dry damp clothes, waking in a tent soaked inside and out from the Ventura ocean air, pushing through fatigue day after day.

And then… the finish line in Santa Monica. When I crossed it, I felt triumphant. Not because I had ridden 500 miles, but because I had met her—the woman I had wondered about, the one who didn’t give up. Me!

I rode again the following year, but it wasn’t the same. I wasn’t searching anymore. I had already found what I needed.

I can imagine the conquest Emma Gatewood felt on September 25, 1955, when she stood on the summit of Mount Katahdin in Maine. She had walked 2,168 miles in 146 days. She was the first woman to hike the entire Appalachian Trail alone in a single season.

Grandma Gatewood kept walking, returning to the trail again and again—not to prove anything, but because walking had become part of who she was. She didn’t stop living her life between those journeys. She gardened. She spent time with her family. And then, when the call came again, she answered it. Not to become someone new. But to return to someone she had come to know.

And that makes me think about all of us. Sometimes we choose a challenge, knowing it will test us. Sometimes the challenge comes to us—unbidden, unwelcome—and still, we are asked to decide who we will be in the face of it.

The ones we choose may seem easier at first. We train for them. Prepare. Say yes on our own terms. But in the end, all challenges ask the same thing of us.

They ask us to call upon something within ourselves that we may not yet fully know—but hope we’ll discover. I have learned far more about who I am and what I am capable of when life is not just merrily, merrily, rowing along.

Looking back now, I can see that ride was more than an accomplishment. It was preparation for things I did not yet know I would face.

And recently, I found myself thinking about it again. My oldest son will turn 59 this May—the same age I was when I took on that ride. We were talking about it, and I realized something surprising. Neither he nor his brother really remembered that I had done it.

So I sent him the photo of me crossing the finish line. He looked at it and said, “Mom, you were HOT!”

I laughed… and then I paused. Because I remember that feeling. Strong. Capable. Alive in my body and my life in a way that is hard to describe, but impossible to forget.

It’s hard to believe that 21 years have passed. And even now, I find myself wondering… Who is the woman I will meet in the next ten or fifteen years? Who is she becoming?

We cannot know what invitations and challenges life will bring us. I’m hoping I’ll still say “yes” when my invitations come—whatever form they take.