Trail Logs

How do you summarize something you don’t yet understand? Something that is really everything. Something that leaves you with a beautiful, unbearable ache inside your chest. One thing I do know. I am something new and feral and strange, somehow braver and more wild.

The forest whispers its story to me as I walk. As I climb out of the valley, it shows me scars from fires past, and the smoky air gives atmosphere to its history. All around me, I see death and ash and new growth. And in it, I see myself.

Humans are fire spirits. We are born with a spark and roar to life, consuming and dancing and reaching for the sky, pushing the boundaries to go as far as we can. Each little flame can snuff out or can grow to a wildfire, can burn and shine bright, then eventually flickers and is gone.

The wilderness calls to us, pulls us, beckons us out beyond the reach of civilization. Over and over again, I hear hikers say they don’t want to wait until “someday” to really, truly live. So here they, here we all, are. Hiking ten, twenty, two hundred, two thousand plus miles. Whatever we can, whatever we must. Because there are no guarantees in life, and this is too important for any of us sitting here, in this cafe, to brush aside.

We descend further down into another valley just as the sun begins setting behind the mountains. Suddenly, we find ourselves in a new landscape entirely. Forests of ancient juniper and softly rattling aspen. It is absolutely enchanting.

Something about carrying everything you need to survive on your back everywhere you go teaches you to let go of excess. Every ounce adds up. Carrying too many clothes or too much food can make for complete misery. This is a lesson I learn all over again as I lug extra consumables over two mountain passes today.

As we ascend, my exhaustion is all-consuming. I think to myself, this isn’t enjoyable right now. The pass around me is breathtaking, but I am not enjoying myself at all. Haven’t been since I climbed shivering into my tent last night. The nagging question of why I chose to do this comes creeping back. But this time, through the haze of my discomfort, an answer starts to form.

We make it to the last switchback before the first raindrops hit, and we are passing Guitar Lake when we first hear thunder. The storm builds in fury, chasing us down the valley. We are overrun within a few miles of camp, the thunder claps closer together and the lightning all around.