Some collaborations feel strategic.
This one feels destined.

I met Samantha (Sam) through a wicked-awesome, punk trail running club called Yeti Trail Runners. At first, I only knew of her, the kind of name that keeps surfacing in the trail world, attached to big ideas, long miles, and thoughtful leadership. We were trail-adjacent acquaintances until Sam posted something that changed everything:

A women-only, trail-focused trip to Alaska.

I remember thinking, that looks incredible. Barbarian Scientist was more direct:
“YOU HAVE TO GO.”

So I did.

That Alaska trip was Sam’s first under her brand Hold the Goat, and from the moment we gathered, it was clear something special was happening. A small group of women from around the country—connected to Sam through the trail running world—met in Palmer, Alaska, with open minds and trail legs ready to go.

We ate home-cooked meals sourced from farmers markets. Because I’m vegetarian, the group made sure I was fully cared for, while others enjoyed locally hunted meat—thoughtful, intentional, grounded. Every day we hiked or ran local trails. No rush. No pressure. Just movement, presence, and place. We spent time with Lucja Leonard—ultrarunner, coach, author, and genuinely good human.

We visited a reindeer farm and met fluffy cows. We foraged for edibles and learned about medicinals while climbing to a nearby summit. We splashed through massive rain puddles along rail-to-trail paths like grown-up kids who forgot they were supposed to be adults.

One day, we moved through trails in a completely different way—being pulled by Alaskan huskies (not Siberian huskies, and yes, we learned why). Another unforgettable day took us to Hatcher Pass to explore Independence Mine State Historical Park, wrapped in history, mountains, and that wild Alaska light.

We had a softer, deeply human day at Potter Marsh, where we met a local potter—friend of a friend—who was also fighting cancer. He made ceramic mugs for each of us. Every mug was different. Each one meant for the person who received it. I still use mine every single day.

We took a scenic train ride to Spencer Glacier, hiked and ran trails with ample signs of bear activity (the bears stayed politely unseen) and were gifted glaciers, wildflowers, and silence.

Some of my favorite miles were the simplest: pounding out distance along Eklutna Lake in Chugach State Park. Just water, trail, conversation, and the steady satisfaction of moving forward.

And because we are who we are, on departure day we made an on-brand, impulsive decision: rented bikes and pedaled double-digit miles along the coast before hopping on our planes home.

That trip didn’t just introduce me to Alaska in a special way.
It introduced me to Sam.

Sam is a writer, photographer, race director, and one of the people behind Canebrake 200—a race that quietly but confidently asks people to consider something once unimaginable: What if you could cover 200 miles on foot? AT ONE TIME. I’ve watched that transformation unfold with my own eyes—people arriving to the topic unsure, intimidated, curious, and leaving believing they can do the impossible.

There’s another thing about Sam that’s harder to name—until you feel it.

Not quietly as in whispered compliments or performative affirmations. Quietly as in—it just is. It’s how she looks at you. How she treats you. How you notice she treats everyone else. There’s no posturing, no shrinking, no softness born of self-erasure. She’s kind, but she’s not a pushover. The details fall away because the feeling is solid—and honestly, isn’t the feeling the real truth of everything?

You don’t even realize it’s happening at the moment. You stand a little taller. Take up space more easily. Feel oddly confident. And you think, damn… I am feeling myself.
Then you realize: it is her. Again.

That steadiness showed up again while we were building Maui.

We’d been working toward a mid-January release for a couple of months when—because life likes irony—I accidentally crashed my website the night before launch. This website. I froze. I cried. I bawled. And then I (with Barbarian Scientist) rebuilt it. Again.

Sam didn’t flinch. She didn’t panic. She didn’t rush in with backup plans “just in case.” She didn’t make it heavier. She just held the line, steady, calm, trusting.

The trip launched on schedule.

Within hours, every spot sold except one.
And I hadn’t even advertised it yet.

That’s Sam. She creates space for people to rebuild, to believe, to sign up for 200-mile races, to say yes to big ideas, to trust themselves more than they did before.

Sam is currently writing a book through Hold the Goat, rooted in curiosity, courage, and the quiet ways we talk ourselves out of the lives we want. It’s shaped by conversation—by listening to people’s stories, understanding what propels us forward or holds us back. It’s about redefining adulthood, starting again, and choosing growth even when fear, aging, or insecurity try to take the wheel.

Now in her fifties, Sam is still unfolding. Still curious. Still saying yes to wild ideas. Her work is shaped by motherhood, long miles on trail, deep conversations, and a steady belief that it’s never too late to participate fully in your own life.

Which explains everything.

It explains Alaska.
It explains the Canebrake.
And it explains why planning Maui together doesn’t feel random—it feels inevitable.

Because this isn’t just about trails or destinations.
It’s about how people feel in the middle of it.

And Sam has a rare gift for making people believe—deep in their bones—that they absolutely can do the hard thing.