Oh, New York. You have drained me. You have saved me. And you have aged me. But that’s the price you pay for living here for a decade. Ten years of thrills mixed with bills, of high highs and low lows. I hate it, yet I love it. Through it all, I’ve learned the only way to make it in this place is to find an escape. But escaping doesn’t always mean booking a flight. Some people lace up their sneakers and hit the pavement with running clubs like Bandit in Greenpoint. Others might find solace on two wheels weaving through traffic with And Still We Ride. Some take it to the basketball courts with Zone 6. Many climb, box, camp or play ultimate frisbee. And then, some hike – like me.
Hiking was not in my DNA. At least, I didn’t think it was. I grew up in “Pure Michigan”, where trees, lakes and trails were abundant, but hiking wasn’t something I ever did. Nature was always there, but I never actively sought it out (other than attending nature camp and Girl Scout camp in elementary school, which I strongly disliked). When I moved to New York, I embraced the concrete jungle fully: the pace, the chaos, the urgency of it all. It wasn’t until a little over a year later that I started to feel its weight. The nonstop hustle, the vitamin D deficiency, the lack of stillness, the way the noise never really stops. I didn’t realize I was missing something until I went on my first hike.
It was January 31, 2016, when I took the Metro-North train upstate with some friends to hike a section of the Appalachian Trail leading to Anthony's Nose, a peak near Cold Spring. I had no clue what I was doing. I followed the leader and paid close attention to the little trail markers as we made our way up the incline. Eventually, we made it to the top, and the view stopped me in my tracks. Standing there, looking over the Hudson, I felt something I hadn’t felt since I arrived in New York: calm. The city was just a distant blur on the horizon. The only sound was the wind moving through the trees. And for the first time since moving to New York, I could breathe fresh air and sit in stillness peacefully.
That moment lived in my head rent-free for months. I kept replaying it – how free I felt, how present. So, I started going back upstate as much as I could with friends to explore more trails, peaks and waterfalls. Hiking became my great escape. It became my way of recalibrating, of releasing everything the city pressed onto me. It was my reset button, and I was hooked.
Fast forward to 2020, when I discovered Hike Clerb.
Like most new experiences these days, I found Hike Clerb on Instagram. I was working at The Cut hosting a video series called Next Level at the time, interviewing women who were cultural trailblazers in their respective spaces. Evelynn Escobar, the founder of Hike Clerb, was one of them. She had this effortlessly cool, nurturing energy about her that made our conversation flow so easily. And her purpose – creating an outdoor collective where Black, Indigenous and women of color can move through nature freely – had me hooked.
I didn’t grow up seeing Black women around me hiking. Not in my family. Not in advertisements. It just wasn’t an image that existed in my world. But there Evelynn was, leading a group of women through mountains, forests and trails like it was the most natural thing in the world. Suddenly, I realized: Oh, this is for me, too.
My first IRL Hike Clerb event happened a year and a half after that interview. I was in LA, and Evelynn hosted a hike with Hunter Boots at Topanga State Park. We started the hike off by forming a big circle with the group – introductions, astrological signs (this is when I knew I was among my people) and an intention-setting moment before we hit the trails. It felt like a modern-day Troop Beverly Hills: a group of women moving through nature together, no competition, no pressure – just pure joy and community. I didn’t just learn how to navigate a trail; I learned how to navigate myself. How to be in my body, how to move through spaces with intention, how to feel safe in an environment that, historically, wasn’t always designed for us.
As we reached an overlook in Topanga, I pulled out my phone to record the view and panned to Evelynn, catching her in the moment as she shared that this was her favorite spot. We took it in together, then she looked at me and said, “It’s giving divine earth mother goddess”. From that day on, that’s what I’ve called her.
Becoming a hike lead for Hike Clerb in New York deepened that relationship with hiking even more. It gave me the tools not just to escape but to bring others along with me. It gave me a sense of responsibility to the land, my community and the stories we were rewriting just by being there. We needed this in New York. A space to heal in nature. A chance to move beyond the city’s density and into something freer, something less structured. A place where we aren’t expected to perform at a high level just to survive.
One of my favorite hikes with Hike Clerb was a weekend glamping trip to Kaaterskill Falls. We were a group of women (and two men) – some strangers, some friends – bonding over kayaking, strong opinions and a collective need to step away from our overbooked, overstimulated lives. Evelynn’s daughter was there, and another friend had her two kids. It wasn’t just a hike; it felt more like a family affair. When we reached the waterfall, we all basked in our accomplishment – swimming, taking selfies and letting the rush of the water wash over us. That sense of freedom and access, the feeling that we did this, is why this truly matters.
Hiking in New York doesn’t mean you have to drive upstate. You can find pockets of wilderness right in your borough. Prospect Park has hidden trails that most people walk right past, including two small waterfalls that make you feel like you’re not in the city at all. In 2023, I led a Hike Clerb event there, guiding a group on a hot girl walk through the lesser-known paths before ending with a sound bath in the grass. Women were doing cartwheels, rolling around in the grass, literally frolicking; it was pure joy. For some, it was the first time they realized they didn’t need to leave the city to experience something that felt expansive.
Hike Clerb taught me that nature is ours, that taking up space in it is our birthright and that sometimes all you really need is a good trail, a strong community and a willingness to frolic like nobody’s watching. Maybe that’s the real secret to surviving a city that never stops: not just pushing through, but knowing when to step away, find your people and let yourself be one with the trees, the dirt and the high altitudes – aka Earth Mother Goddess.
