The story opens with fierce wind and a soaked tent on a volcanic ridge, but the real weather change happens inside. Belinda Coker set out to walk the GR131 across the Canary Islands, a route that stitches seven islands with ancient footpaths. A New Year’s hurricane shattered her shelter. Days later, a sudden temperature drop and freezing rain at 1,600 meters pushed her toward hypothermia. Her phone failed in the wet cold, and shivering shifted from skin deep to core deep. Training, not bravado, led her to bail out, thumb a ride, and choose another day. That decision is the spine of this conversation: adventure that honors life over ego, and the courage to stop when stopping is the bravest move.
Photos Courtesy of Belinda Coker
Belinda’s path didn’t begin on Spain’s outposts. She grew up in New Zealand, where outdoor pursuits are woven into school days and “tramping” builds a shared language with land. In her twenties she roamed Asia, volunteered on a solar project in Ladakh, and once wandered across an invisible border into Pakistan, only to be scolded by soldiers who then fed her lunch. Life later turned toward work, a family of three kids, and years of five-star flights. The pandemic cracked that routine. A mirror moment revealed lost spark, extra weight, and a voice asking for a Belinda hat, not another role. A rainforest meetup with hikers in their seventies lit a beacon: glowing skin, easy strength, and proof that longevity loves movement.
Momentum followed. Day hikes at 3 a.m. for sunrise became overnights, then multi-day routes. She crossed Australia’s legendary tracks—Overland and Larapinta—where the red center feels like the country’s heartbeat and Indigenous stories guide your steps. She talks about women’s places along the trail, standing in a moonlit chasm and feeling invited by tradition instead of merely passing through. Greenland deepened that reverence: 200 miles from ice cap to sea along Inuit hunting routes, cairns as compass, musk oxen on the tundra, and a silence so complete it resets your nervous system. No leaves, no birdsong, just breath, boot, and thought aligning into calm.
Safety threads through every mile. Wilderness first aid gave her the language to read risk—recognizing core shivers as a red line, knowing when electronics turn useless, trusting a compass and a plan. She’s become a clear voice on hazards and judgment, from thunderstorms to hydration to the surprising fact that snakebite treatment differs wildly between Australia and the United States. Her free resource, Hike It Right, distills essentials many skip: navigation basics, first aid kit packing, trail hygiene, and the unglamorous but vital art of going to the bathroom outdoors. Preparation isn’t a killjoy—it is the doorway to deeper experience and fewer rescues. 
Between long routes, Belinda and her partner fund slow travel with house sitting. It’s a simple exchange that’s quietly reshaping tourism: you care for a home and pets while the owners are away, eliminating lodging costs and restoring a kitchen table to travel life. For solo travelers it adds safety; for anyone with dietary needs it saves money and stress; for boomers it enables immersive, months-long stays. She now teaches best practices—crafting profiles that build trust, setting boundaries around pet care, and choosing sits that fit your rhythm. This blend of frugal logistics and wide-open wandering makes a sustainable loop: hike seven to eight months a year, house sit the rest, and keep the flame lit.
If tents aren’t your style, Belinda points to hut-to-hut and inn-to-inn routes across Europe and New Zealand’s 900 public huts. The Camino networks offer legal, comfortable beds each night, letting you carry only a small pack and your curiosity. What matters isn’t the shelter but the spark: the sunrise through a tent door, the hush across Arctic ground, the warmth of a village market in Spain, the moment you realize you’ve come home to yourself. Adventure, to her, is anything that makes you say wow and feel a clean zing in your chest. It’s a practice of returning—safely, humbly, and as often as possible—to the trail that leads you back to you.
