Afew people know, but I’ve been pretty quiet about it — because, honestly, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to do it.

But I did. I recently spent a week-and-a-half traveling through Wisconsin, Michigan and Arkansas — two states I had never been to before. All by myself.

I left on Wednesday, May 28th, and drove nine-and-a-half hours solo. That’s the longest I’ve ever driven, and definitely the farthest I’ve ever gone alone. I kicked things off with a couple nights in Wisconsin visiting friends — where I was officially dubbed “Aunt Ariel” by a very adorable 2-year-old. We got ice cream, shared sprinkles, toured the capital and did the park thing. I am still very thankful to have had time to rest and connect with humans one last time before solitude for the next week.

By Friday, I hit the road again, heading five hours north up the Green Bay shoreline to Munising, Michigan, population about 2,000.

It felt like home. Small. Clean. Loved. You wouldn’t expect it to be a tourist town, except for all the campgrounds — some of which are only accessible after an 8-mile hike.

I arrived Friday afternoon, wearing jeans and a crop tank. Big mistake.

By 4 p.m., it was 50 degrees and near freezing the closer I got to the water. I had to wheelbarrow my supplies a quarter-mile into camp, which took multiple trips. I was there for six nights with no electricity, and water only at the shower house.

That night, I layered up and tried to get familiar with my surroundings before settling in for my first night of solo camping.

That first night? Miserable. My sleeping bag wasn’t warm enough, and my brand-new air mattress had a leak. I spent the night shivering, re-inflating the mattress by hand, feeling like I was sleeping directly on a sheet of ice.

Saturday morning, I showered to thaw out. I’m still thankful for the heated shower house and warm water. Then I hit town for a proper sleeping bag — rated for -7 degrees — and a few other survival upgrades, like a beanie and wool gloves. That day’s hike was along Miners Road: the waterfall, the beach, the castle overlook. It was only three miles, but every view was a stunner.

Back at camp, I made my comfort food, eggs and pancakes over a fire. They were cold by the time they hit my mouth, but it tasted like victory. And smoke. But mostly victory.

I hunkered down for my second night, much warmer thanks to my sleeping bag upgrade, even though I could still see my breath.

Sunday was the big one: a 10.2-mile hike. I had delays in the morning and started rushing myself. Then I caught myself: “Slow down. You have no schedule. This trip is about not rushing.”

So I took a breath, and didn’t hit the trailhead until noon, thinking I’d be back in five hours.

HA. It was more like nearly eight hours. I originally planned to split the trail in half, but a fellow hiker convinced me to do it all in one go, so I wouldn’t miss the coastline. He was right, and I only hated him a little by about mile 7.

That hike was magical — painful, exhausting, terrifying — but magical.

I stood on the edge of a dozen cliffs, some I probably shouldn’t have. The water was an unreal turquoise and deep blue, crashing against red-streaked cliffs. I carried at least 20 extra pounds of food and gear, and those first couple of miles were serene — skinny trees, shaded trails, and little “side quests” to lookout points.

At Chapel Lake, I detoured off-trail, walking along the edge of a cliff with a 200-foot drop. Totally worth it. At Chapel Falls, I joined a group of hikers who I saw sneaking past a fence for a better view. That’s where someone took my favorite photo of the trip: me mid-flail, arms out, caught mid-grin as I nearly fall but somehow don’t.

I titled that, and the other cliff pictures, a photo series, “Don’t Show Jordan’s Mom.”

I saw waterfall after waterfall, hiked through root-laced trails that tried to kill my toes and perched on cliff edges just to stare into that endless, icy water. I was exhausted but couldn’t stop. I wanted to remember everything.

Then came the Grand Portal Point. The trail narrowed. The drop got steeper. The views got more unreal. And the paranoia kicked in. Bears live here, right? Every dark tree stump had me gasping. At one point I froze, heart pounding, sure something was beside me. I turned — it was a chipmunk.

I nearly had a heart attack because of a chipmunk. Even though I had a bear horn and pepper spray and a taser, I couldn’t for the life of me remember which pocket of my pack they were in.

Somewhere around mile 8, I stopped to pee in the woods and eat an apple. That was the best apple that ever existed. I heard and felt my hip pop weird. My pack felt heavier even though I’d eaten all my snacks and drank two liters of water. The final mile was a blur. Uphill. Endless. My brain went on autopilot. I was so close to the end.

But I made it. At Mosquito Falls, the final landmark, I still had to rope-slide down a muddy embankment and cross a crooked bridge. But I did. Every. Last. Thing.

I sat down at the trailhead. My car was only 100 yards away, but I wanted to invent teleportation just to avoid the last few steps.

I was less cold that night, though thoroughly more exhausted. I slept hard.

Thankfully too, because I had a full day of adventures planned for Monday.

TroutMom says, do the scary thing. Do the thing that makes your heart race from fear and excitement. And take a minute to stop rushing yourself through life, you only get the one. Turn that 5 mile hike into a 10 mile hike. Experience all of the “side quests” you can, even if it adds a few hours to the task.

This is the first part in a series, where I will share my trip with you all.

Jordan Troutman is the Owner and General Manager of the Cassville Democrat, president of the Ozark Press Association, a wife, a mother of two daughters and a graduate of Capella University with a Bachelor’s in General Psychology. She is pursuing a Master’s in Marriage and Family Therapy. She may be reached at jtroutman@cassville-democrat.com.