The Truth About Getting Off Trail
By: Tina Eckerlin
I used to think quitting a trail meant I failed. Not slowing down. Not adjusting the plan. Quitting.
Getting off trail felt like something you weren’t supposed to do, like you just weren’t tough enough to finish what you started.
Now I know better. But it took a few hard lessons, and a lot of miles to get there.
In the winter months in Canada, when it’s -30°C and the world is buried under three feet of snow, I spend a lot of time dreaming.
I dream about long days on trail. Heat rising off rock, fragrant scents coming from a meadow, and the cool air off of a lake. It is the type-2 fun of sweat, bugs, exhaustion, and that deep kind of tired you only get from being out there all day.
I still hike and winter camp, but it’s different, shorter and more controlled.
Summer is where I go all in.
I have a two-month window, July and August; to live wild, and I try to fit as much into that time as I can.
Winter turns into prep season: trail research, books, maps, blogs, videos, training, dialing in gear and dehydrating meals.
Then it shifts into logistics; resupply boxes, rides, getting things sorted at home so I can disappear for a bit.
By the time I step onto trail, I’m carrying more than just a pack. I’m carrying expectation. And that’s why getting off trail hits so hard.
The First Time I Quit
My first time getting off trail was in 2021 on the Rideau Trail; Kingston to Ottawa, 350 km total. I made it 251 km in 10 days.
For days leading up to it, I had been battling heat exhaustion. I was managing it… or at least I thought I was. Around day five or six, my ankles started to hurt. Then they swelled. Then every step became something I had to brace for.
By the last two days, it was excruciating. I had 3–4 days left. Close enough to taste it. And I had to quit.
I caught a ride to a train station, took the train, and then another ride home. And I cried the whole way.
Not quiet and composed tears. Just that heavy, gut-punch kind you can’t really hold back. Messy and pathetic.
I felt like I failed. I felt embarrassed. Ashamed, even.
On trail, it’s easy to tie your worth to forward progress. Miles = success. Stopping = failure.
Looking back, I questioned everything. Should I have trained more? Pushed harder? Just toughed it out?
But the truth is I had trained more for that hike than any before or since.
My legs were ready. My feet were ready. The heat just kicked my ass.
Going Back
A few weeks later, when the swelling finally went down, I went back.
And I finished it. Not the finish I planned, but a finish nonetheless.
That second finish didn’t erase the first attempt, but it changed how I saw it.
I hadn’t failed. I had learned.
I hadn’t planned any rest days. I wasn’t stopping enough to sit down, put my feet up, and actually recover. I had over-planned everything; set dates, reservations, expectations and timelines.
There was no room for things to go sideways.
And on trail… things always go sideways.
The Ganaraska Attempt
Two years later, I went for the Ganaraska Trail, 500 km.
Same preparation. Same mindset. Same mistake: early July heat. 40°C with the humidex.
This time, water became the problem.
Day two, I had to hike an extra 7 km after a brutal day just to find a water source. And it didn’t really get better from there.
I was getting off trail, knocking on doors, hoping someone was home. Hoping they’d say yes. I was weak and in a daze.
By day six, I realized I hadn’t urinated since the morning before. I knew what that meant. And I still pushed on.
That day was just over 38 km; heat, bushwhacking, bugs, poor trail markings and getting turned around, and a close black bear encounter. My reaction time was slow and I was getting confused.
I was exhausted. Not thinking clearly. Just moving forward because that’s what you do.
It was past 8 pm and the sun was low in the sky. I came out of the trail to a forest road and then after what felt like an eternity to a house and asked for water. Not casually, but desperately. I would have cried if there was anything left in me. I drank almost 3-litres until I felt I would be sick.
I thought about the next day hiking. The next stretch ahead was remote. Rough. No easy way out. And that’s when it finally clicked.
I wasn’t just uncomfortable, I was in a dangerous situation. I realized it was about to go from bad to worse.
So I got off trail.
Three hitches and a long walk later, I made my way back to a train station.
This time felt different. I was still disappointed. But I wasn’t ashamed.
I was proud.
Proud that I listened. Proud that I made the call before it got worse. Proud of what I had pushed through, and that I knew when to stop.
The Bruce Trail
Last summer, I attempted the Bruce Trail, 800 km.
Again, July. Again, heat. But this time, I went in a little differently.
I had a goal, but I let go of expectations.
The creek beds were dry and +40°C heat with no end in sight. I was hiking 30+ km between water sources and getting off trail just to find water again. Carrying 4-litres at a time, and it was never enough.
At 126 km, the signs came back. That familiar feeling, heat exhaustion, dehydration, that slow slide. Despite feeling a bit better when I was able to hydrate, I felt that slippery slope of my body hitting survival-mode.
This time, I didn’t wait. I stopped.
I stopped in the middle of the trail. Cried for a few minutes, and got off trail.
What “Failure” Actually Feels Like
Getting off trail messes with your head more than your body sometimes.
You go through the motions:
Denial - I can push through this
Bargaining - Just one more day…
Frustration - Why is this happening?
Comparison - Other people finish…
Shame - I should be stronger than this
And then, if you let yourself get there; acceptance.
Trail culture loves to glorify pushing through. Finishing no matter what.
But real grit? Sometimes it’s knowing when to stop.
What I’ve Learned
My “failed” hikes have taught me more than any of my successful ones ever did.
They’ve taught me to:
- Respect the conditions
- Build in rest
- Stay flexible
- Listen early instead of late
- Let go of ego
There is no failure out there. Just experience.
What’s Next
I still want big miles. Big days. Big trips.
This summer, I’m planning a 700 km yo-yo on a trail I know well and have completed one-directionally twice.
Once again it will be July. I know the water sources. I know where I can camp. I know how to get off trail and home easily. I know what I’m getting into and when to listen to my body.
It’ll be hot, buggy, and probably a bit miserable at times. Just your standard type-2 adventure. You can be sure I’ll complain about it.
But I’m going in with a different mindset.
If I finish, amazing. If I don’t, that’s okay too.
No failure. Just another experience.
