I’m an adventure guide for an all-women’s travel company, which means I get to lead groups of incredible women on hiking, backpacking, surfing, rappelling, snorkelling and cultural trips around the world. I’ve gotten to hike the Inca Trail in Peru, snorkel in the Caribbean Sea and watch the sunrise over Petra in Jordan — all while getting paid.
When I tell people what I do for work, they usually think I’m living the dream.
But as I sit in my friend’s apartment between tours searching for my next house-sitting gig, she looks at me from across the couch and says, “I don’t know how you sleep at night.” I’m about to guide an international tour in Belize for three weeks, but I don’t even know where I’m going to live next week.
And that is the nature of this lifestyle. My life is like a roller coaster — long, hard climbs where my stomach churns with anxiety and anticipation, followed by thrilling, heart-racing drops. Meanwhile, other people’s lives tend to be more like a merry-go-round — predictable, steady or at least smooth enough to enjoy an ice cream cone while they wait for the next rotation.
But I always tell people that I didn’t choose this lifestyle; this lifestyle chose me.
It all started when I saw a flyer in my university’s dining hall: “Intro to Backpacking on the Florida Trail - $65.”
I had never been backpacking in my life, but that little flyer filled me with excitement. I signed up alone, and when I saw that the guides on that trip were fellow students — practically glowing with a golden aura as they got paid to enjoy the beautiful outdoors — I knew I was about to step on the roller coaster. I asked them, “How can I get your job?”
And that’s where my ride began — working part-time as an adventure guide at my university while earning my bachelor’s in psychology and communication. I got certified in wilderness medicine, learned how to drive 12-passenger vehicles with 12 sea kayaks attached to the back through Miami traffic, and how to create entirely new backpacking routes on the fly when a section of the trail is closed due to forest fires. At 19, I traveled abroad for the first time, getting paid to guide the Landmannalaugar Trail, a 35-mile trek through Iceland’s backcountry.
But once I graduated, I figured it was time to “grow up.”
And I tried, I really did.
After thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail at 22 for fun — a reward I gave myself after graduating — I enrolled in a master’s program for mental health counselling at Boston College. But when I saw how much I’d have to take out in student loans, something inside me screamed, NO! GET US OUT OF HERE!
On Monday, I was enrolled in classes; by Friday, I was packing all of my stuff into my car and driving to rural Pennsylvania for the season, living in a cabin on a lake while teaching elementary students outdoor education. With no cell service in the valley, I spent my evenings building fires, writing, walking around the lake at sunset and spending real quality time with my co-workers and friends.
I tried again in 2020, getting a job in the behavioural health unit at a children’s hospital in New Orleans. If I’d stayed long-term, they would have paid for my education. But after spending hours under fluorescent lights, watching the health care system prioritise money over actual care, the screaming in my head continued.
At 25, I grabbed a TV dinner table and a folding chair, sat on Frenchmen Street in downtown New Orleans and sold my poetry. I also paid my rent by working background and stand-in gigs in New Orleans’ Hollywood film scene unit. That phase of my life was full of art, late nights and unpredictability.
But roller coasters don’t stay in free fall forever, and eventually, I realised it wasn’t sustainable.
My brother, with his secure finance career, perfect marriage, golden retriever and five-bedroom home in the suburbs, is the complete opposite of me. “You need to be getting paid for your highest skill level,” he told me after I realised the poetry-on-the-street thing wasn’t going to work out.
I had over 10,000 hours of backpacking experience, so I applied to be a guide again.
After freelancing with a few outdoor education programs, I got hired as a regular guide with an all-women’s adventure travel company. As a contracted guide, I lead up to 12 trips a year across the US and internationally. The company is fully remote, so everything is managed virtually — before each trip, I receive detailed technical itineraries, logistics spreadsheets and adventure reports from past tours. Then I hop on a plane and get ready to give the women the best experience of their lives.
My job is part logistics, part hype-woman, part photographer, part driver, part chef, part shoulder-to-cry-on, part yoga instructor and part wilderness first responder. I handle everything from mapping out trail routes and organizing gear to making sure everyone feels supported and safe on the journey.
The tours last anywhere from four to 10 days, and the workdays are long — typically 12 to 14 hours, sometimes stretching to 16. It’s a lot of gear loading, van driving, trail guiding, problem-solving, storytelling and emotional space holding. Much like waiting tables, most of my income comes from tips — so while the base pay covers the essentials, I never really know how much I’ll walk away with until the trip ends. Another climb on the roller coaster.
When I’m not guiding, I’m usually between short-term housing setups — staying with friends and family, house-sitting or traveling. While I technically work part time, guiding takes up a big part of my year both physically and mentally. I can be on the road or abroad for several weeks at a time, depending on how the trips are scheduled. I had a permanent apartment, but after a year of guiding, I realized I’d only spent six weeks there in the past six months.
The women who join our tours are often at some sort of life crossroads — post-divorce, new job, milestone birthday or just craving connection and adventure — and all of them are inspiring. They come from all over, and they show up with open hearts and a willingness to challenge themselves. The real magic is in the moments I get to watch these women conquer a fear of heights on a climb, laugh uncontrollably around a campfire or cry happy tears at the top of a mountain. It’s about connection — to nature, to each other and to ourselves.
My first year, at 27, I led hikes through some of America’s most incredible landscapes — Rim-to-Rim in the Grand Canyon, Angel’s Landing in Zion, Half Dome in Yosemite.
Year two, at 28, I went abroad — trekking the Julian Alps in Slovenia, leading back-to-back Inca Trail expeditions, guiding in Jordan and standing in awe before Petra, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.
I’ll never forget rafting down the Soča River in Slovenia. We had just finished a 30-mile hut-to-hut trek, spent the morning paddleboarding at sunrise on Lake Bohinj and indulged in one of the best breakfasts of my life at a boutique hotel. The river was crystal-clear blue — the kind you see in Banff, Canada, but warm and inviting. As we floated through the rapids, our local guide pointed ahead and called out, “Look, Slovenia loves you, Katie.”
I followed his gaze to see a giant limestone heart nestled in the distant mountains.
Definitively, a high.
But for every exhilarating descent, there are long, stomach-churning climbs.
Like getting food poisoning in Peru and having only a single day to recover before leading my next group, forcing myself to look strong and professional.
Or, equally as terrifying: any family gathering ever.
“Aren’t you getting a little old for this lifestyle?”
“You’re almost 30 — you should have your life figured out by now.”
“You’re never going to find a husband doing this. Men want someone stable. They’ll think you cheat on them every time you jet off to another country.”
“How you invest your time now is going to determine your future.”
Sometimes those comments get to me. Sometimes I find myself crying alone in my car, seeing that another girl from high school has a giant rock on her finger, a newborn baby or a wedding that looked like it came out of a Disney movie. I question whether they’re right.
I’m still single — although I’ve had some pretty romantic flings in some pretty remarkable places — and yes, I’d love to get married and have kids one day. My biological clock is ticking, right? Aren’t all the good ones gone by now?
Sometimes, I wonder if this lifestyle is setting me back. I have a 401(k) and health insurance, but I don’t have a permanent address or a career path that fits neatly into a LinkedIn box. While my job lets me explore the world, it doesn’t always offer the kind of structure people associate with stability. There are moments — usually late at night, when I’m sleeping in a borrowed bed or repacking my suitcase for the 10th time — when I question if I’m building a future or just drifting through the present.
But then, I see the pure joy on a woman’s face after I help her conquer the Half Dome cables. I watch the sunset from the top of one of America’s best mountains — all while getting paid — and I can’t help but feel sorry for the merry-go-round people.
Because they’ll never know the thrill of the ride I’m on.
When I was younger, I was terrified of regret. I feared waking up one day wishing I had chosen differently. But the more I traveled, the more I realized something: Regret is not about the choices you make but about the ones you don’t.
Because do you want to know what’s harder than not knowing where you’re going to sleep, being lonely and single, or not knowing how much money you’re going to make this month? It’s living a life full of what ifs.
So that’s what I do — I chase, discover and unveil every single what if until I reach the end of that rope. That’s what keeps me moving forward.
That and the blind trust, optimism and maybe even the slight delusion that everything is going to work out. If I take full advantage of the present moment, I believe the future will take care of itself.
Because sometimes, the scariest choices lead to the most unforgettable rides.
I know my body. I know that one day, after exploring the world, rafting rivers, conquering mountains, hopping on flights, sleeping in hostels, carrying a 50-pound backpack and treating 100 blisters on other people’s feet, she will get tired.
And she’ll step off the roller coaster.
But right now? I have my hands free, I’m throwing them in the air, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs —
And I am flying.
Katie Klos is an adventure guide and writer who leads trips around the world for the company Explorer Chick. With over 10,000 hours of backpacking experience, she’s an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker and holds a double major in Psychology and Communication. Passionate about wild places, she writes about travel, identity, freedom, culture and gear.
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