From Trail to Canvas: How Thru-Hiking Shapes My Art

There's a particular quality of light that happens in the desert just before sunset—golden and impossibly clear, making every saguaro cast a shadow three times its length. You can only experience this if you're out there, walking slowly enough to notice. And that's exactly what thru-hiking taught me: to walk slowly, to notice everything, and to understand that the most profound art happens in the pauses between steps.

The Trail as Studio

Most people think of hiking as recreation—a weekend escape, a fitness goal, maybe a bucket list item. For me, thru-hiking became something else entirely: a moving studio, a meditation practice, and an education in seeing that no art school could provide.

Over the past several years, I've walked thousands of miles through some of North America's most stunning landscapes. The Arizona Trail through saguaro forests. Stretches of the Pacific Crest Trail from California to Crater Lake, Oregon. Desert crossings in Arizona and California. Each mile has worked its way into my paintings—not just as subject matter, but as a way of seeing.

When you're carrying everything you need on your back and covering 15-20 miles a day, you can't rush. You notice the cellular structure of a barrel cactus up close. You watch a hummingbirds swirl around feeders for ten full minutes because you're taking a water break anyway. You see how the light changes the color of pine needles from emerald to almost-black as afternoon becomes evening.

This is where my artistic practice deepened—not in front of an easel, but in the deliberate, slow observation that only long-distance hiking provides.

From Observation to Abstraction

Here's what surprised me: the more time I spent in wild places, the more I saw patterns repeating at every scale. The roots of a Redwood tree mirror the branching of lightning, of rivers, of neural pathways, of root systems. The spiral of a pine cone echoes the spiral of a galaxy, of DNA, of a snail's shell.

These aren't metaphors—they're actual patterns that govern how life organizes itself. And once you start seeing them, you can't unsee them.

This realization transformed my work to incorporate the natural world with abstract biological patterns I had already been painting with portraits of friends and family. DNA helixes. Cellular structures. Energetic circles representing qi, the life force flowing through everything.

The paintings became maps of interconnection. They show what's visible (the massive mountains of the Northern Cascades and what's invisible but equally real (the genetic code it shares with every other living thing, the energy sustaining it, the mycorrhizal networks connecting its roots to the soil ecosystem).

Walking as Creative Practice

There's a rhythm to long-distance hiking that mirrors the creative process. You start each day not quite sure what you'll encounter. You move forward with intention but stay open to detours. You problem-solve constantly—water sources, weather changes, physical limitations. You learn to be present because the trail demands it.

In my studio, I try to maintain this same quality of attention. When I'm painting, I'm not thinking about the next commission or what collectors might want. I'm in dialogue with the work itself, responding to what emerges, staying open to unexpected directions—just like adjusting your route when you discover a stream has run dry or a shortcut presents itself.

The trail taught me that the most interesting discoveries happen when you slow down and pay attention. That patience reveals complexity. That what seems barren at first glance (a desert, a blank canvas) is actually teeming with life once you learn to see it.

Bringing the Wilderness Home

Not everyone can or wants to thru-hike. I understand that. Physical ability, time, resources, life circumstances—there are a thousand valid reasons why long-distance hiking isn't accessible to everyone.

But I believe everyone deserves to experience the sense of wonder, connection, and peace that wild places offer. That's why I paint.

My goal with every piece is to create a portal—a way for you to access the feeling of standing on top of Mt. Whitney at golden hour, or watching fog move through coastal Douglas Firs, or witnessing a hummingbird's impossible aerial acrobatics. I want my art to slow you down, to invite contemplation, to remind you of the intricate web connecting all living things.

When someone tells me they feel calmer looking at one of my paintings, or that it makes them want to spend more time in nature, or that they suddenly noticed patterns they'd never seen before—that's when I know the work is doing what it's meant to do.

The Next Trail

I'm planning my next long hike for spring 2026—a section of the Continental Divide Trail in Wyoming and Montana or finish the Pacific Crest Trail in Oregon and Washington. I'll be carrying a small watercolor set and my camera, collecting observations that will eventually become paintings.

But I've also learned that "trail time" doesn't have to mean epic wilderness expeditions. It can be a mindful walk around your neighborhood, noticing how lichen grows on tree bark. A fifteen-minute pause in a city park, watching squirrels cache acorns. Even studying the geometry of a houseplant's leaves.

The trail is anywhere you choose to slow down and see.

Your Turn

Do you have a place in nature that shaped how you see the world? I'd love to hear about it in the comments below. Or if you've done any long-distance hiking, what did the trail teach you?

And if you're interested in bringing trail-inspired art into your space, explore my Wildlife Wonders or Trails Remembered featuring landscapes from my hiking adventures.

Until next time, walk slowly and notice everything.

— Quyen