I wasn’t scared of bears.

I wasn’t scared of mountain lions.

I was scared of being alone with my own thoughts.

On the first day of my 185 mile hike – the first long hike I’d ever done – I suddenly found myself faced with hiking the whole thing alone.

The friend I was hiking with wasn’t feeling well, and when we crossed a highway where we had cell phone service, she called her daughter to come pick her up. On Day One.

It was three weeks after what I consider my rock bottom. I had been struggling with alcohol addiction for years, and had just recently wrecked my car and ruined a very important relationship. I wasn’t even sure I should still go on this hike. I didn’t feel like I deserved it. But my husband encouraged me to go, so I did. My mind was reeling with shame and regret, reliving that awful scene over and over.

Wishing I could go back and change the past, take back the things I’d said and done. Wishing – and knowing I couldn’t – have a do-over.

I wasn’t even actually sober yet. In fact, I’d carried in a single serving of wine to drink on that first night. But I knew that two weeks without alcohol were ahead of me. Two weeks of not escaping any of the thoughts in my mind.

Two weeks sounded like a really, really long time.

So there I was, on the side of a mountain next to a highway, with 180 miles of mountains stretching out in front of me. I had to decide then and there if I was going to go home too, or if I was going to continue on alone. I had never backpacked solo. The idea of being alone with my own thoughts for days on end was terrifying. At that point in my life, my mind wasn’t a very kind place to be. After everything I’d done, all the pain I’d caused, I was downright cruel to myself.

There was also something in me that told me I needed to do it. Even if I was scared.

Ruminating thoughts were one of the primary reasons I drank. I couldn’t get them to stop. Round and round they’d go, the merry-go-round from hell. Replaying all of my failures and regrets, all of my fears and worries. Perpetuating a cycle of self-loathing and escaping and shame. Once I was on the trail, and I didn’t have access to alcohol, it was just self-loathing and shame.

No escaping.

The first couple of days were brutal.

Carrying almost 40 pounds on my back, dragging myself up steep mountain passes and then easing myself down the other side, over and over again. My knees hurt. My feet hurt. My heart hurt. I cried a lot – I didn’t know what else to do. The physical pain and the emotional pain mixed together felt like too much.

It was at that point, a few days in and desperate for some kind of release, that I stumbled upon – and began mastering – the art of mindfulness without meditation.

I started picking something further up the trail to focus on. A rock, a tree, a flower. Anything that caught my eye. And as I walked, I would study it. Try to memorize every detail. I’d notice the cracks in the rock, how they cast shadows over the surfaces. I’d notice how many little stamens were in the centers of the fireweed growing along the trail. I’d watch the bees as their legs became more and more covered in pollen. I’d count the eyes on the side of an aspen tree, watching me as I approached it.

As long as I was focusing on what I saw, noting and memorizing every detail, I couldn’t focus on anything else.

My mind finally got a break.

I’ve never been very successful at meditating. I love the idea of letting thoughts come in, and them letting them go out, without judging them or giving them energy. It sounds lovely, in theory. My reality, however, is that the thoughts would come, I would will them to go and they wouldn’t, so I’d get frustrated and angry with myself. There was nothing peaceful about meditation when I tried it.

But this whole focusing on the details thing – it worked! Even if a thought came in, I could easily focus my attention back on whatever little detail I was working to memorize.

It felt like I could breathe again, after suffocating in my own thoughts for so long.

Eventually I realized I was going to wish I’d documented my adventure with more than just really detailed memories. So I took out my camera, and started looking for great shots.

This turned out to be another form of active mindfulness. As I walked, I kept an eye out for angles, for lighting, for unique perspectives. Again, I was focusing on details, staying fully focused on exactly where I was and what I was seeing. The photos were beautiful.

And my mind was growing more settled by the hour.

It took me two weeks to walk those 185 miles. Two weeks of being alone in my own head, only occasionally crossing paths with other people. A few minutes, a quick exchange, and then I was alone again. Mile after mile, night after night.

Without a doubt, I know that learning how to make peace with my thoughts helped make it easier to get sober, which I finally did a few weeks after I returned.

I still use these tools today, 3+ years later.

Every week, I go for a hike alone. And as I walk, I find tiny details to focus on, to commit to memory. It’s become such a comforting practice that it’s natural now.

And almost daily, I go for walks around my yard, or down my driveway, and look for things to take pictures of. Sometimes on cold days, I stay inside and take pictures of my dogs, or my plants, or sometimes my own art and decor. It doesn’t really matter what it is – it’s just focusing on something other than what’s going through my head. It feels like a breath of fresh air. It feels like rest. “Mindful photography” I call it.

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You don’t have to walk 185 miles through the Colorado wildnerness to learn these skills.

If you find that you get frustrated with yourself when you try to meditate, try practicing active mindfulness instead. You may just find that it gives you the break that you’re needing.

You may find that it turns your mind into a place of safety and rest.

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If you’d like to hear more about my adventures on the Colorado Trail – and especially what it’s taught me about sobriety – make sure you check out this post too.