Crack climbing, where you follow a crack in the rock and use specialized climbing techniques to ascend, becomes my favorite climbing style. The cracks vary in size from those barely big enough for fingers to those so wide the entire body can fit inside. One scorching summer day in June, I lead a traditional climb on Currey’s Diagonal, rated a 5.10c3 on the Yosemite Decimal System. A 5.10 climb is one that a dedicated weekend climber might attain. 5.11 remains in the realm of a hardcore climber, which I aspire to be. The last, and only, protection available along a fifteen-foot span forty feet above the ground is a tiny pine tree, around which climbers wrap webbing. I put a tiny nut in a crack with sweaty hands on nonexistent footholds, when my left foot slips. It is all over.
No, the tiny pine tree holds. It’s a miracle. Since my partner has given out a lot of slack to keep from throwing me off balance, I fall at least thirty feet onto a rock outcropping below, where both my ankles hit hard before tension on the rope bounces me back up. Torn ligaments in both ankles leave me unable to walk for a couple of weeks and unable to climb for almost a year.
Rock climbing is more than an athletic challenge for me. It fosters my connections to other people and to the natural world, a salvation for my teenage self. Now I have to find alternative channels. My nomadic nature calls me back to the road, so I wander on. I leave Laramie. I am now eighteen years old, roaming the western states, living out of my car.
I drive to Arizona to explore Flagstaff and Sedona. While hiking in Sedona, a cyst on my ovary ruptures. I have to crawl back to my car, then drive to the hospital. After this scare, I go back to Minneapolis and try to save up money. I work at a climbing gym and canvass for the Sierra Club, working on the Clean Air Act.
Somehow, things go awry—again. I make bad choices. I write bad checks to get things I need. I fault on a car loan cosigned by Mom’s closest friend. I don’t pay my parking tickets and end up in jail overnight. I owe $8,000 on the car loan and $4,000 to my uncle for helping me get out of the legal repercussions of the bounced checks. My Buddhist practices deepen, I become a vegan, but my lifestyle doesn’t seem to follow that of a monk. I become a wannabe hippie. I make and sell hemp jewelry on street corners around coffee shops, where I camp out with my dog, guitar, and long, colorful skirt, listening to Bob Dylan.
Time to find Josh and get out of the city.
Married
Savannah, Georgia | 1998
You gotta cry without weeping, talk without speaking
Scream without raising your voice.
—U2, “Running to Stand Still”
Josh joined the army to become a ranger. In June 1998, Josh and I reunite after two years apart to backpack together in Canyonlands in Utah. We trek forty miles through desert terrain not unlike the Grand Canyon but older and shallower.
We sleep each night by a campfire in sleeping bags beneath the glorious stars. Each morning, we wake to a symphony of birds and the wind whispering in the canyons. Everyday reality slips from our grasp, and all we know is each other and the earth and sky around us. It’s not long before we have a brilliant idea: we should get married.
We take three months to arrange our wedding in Minneapolis before planning to move to Savannah, Georgia, where Josh is stationed. Our wedding is textbook fairy-tale. Family and friends congregate in a retrofitted barn in Stillwater, Minnesota. My sisters sing a cute harmonizing version of “Edelweiss.” Josh and I have a unity candle ceremony and write our own vows. Everything is brilliant, full of happiness, and I can’t help but weep for joy. When my Mom gifts me with something blue, I cry. Then when Dad walks me down the aisle, I cry. For the father-daughter dance, we play “Swinging” by John Anderson, a song my Dad would sing to me as a child without end. I cry again. Josh and I dance to “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong, and the tears finally stop. Looking into his eyes, I know we will be together for all our years.
“There is no … way you can … pick me up! You will hurt your … back! Stop!” I gasp, too hysterical from laughter to construct a complete sentence. My protests pass by unnoticed as Josh sweeps me off my feet and carries me across the threshold of our glorious double-wide nestled in the wilds of Savannah. To us, this is total paradise, though I may be biased. Our first home together—ours!—Josh, me, and Aquila and Nashya, our dogs. It may not be Alaska, but it remains full of promise.
“Well?” he asks, shifting back and forth on his feet, a sheepish grin on his face. He glances at me, full charm, with his head cocked and one eye open. How can I hold my own with him?
“I love it. How did you find this place? It’s perfect!” Looking around, I see possibility and a future. I will work on the house while Josh is on duty. The dogs can run around and be as crazy as they want outside, year-round.
“Hey, the universe and I are like this,” Josh says, showing his crossed fingers.
“Lucky me,” I say as I grab him for a long kiss. It is a kiss of reckless abandon, of not holding back, of giving everything you have and never turning back.
After a honeymoon night in our new home, we lie in bed looking out the window at the bright stars that battle for attention with the dark night.
“Can you believe we married each other?” he asks.
“Well, I had my eyes on you since I was fifteen. You had no chance,” I tease.
From our first day together at the archaeological dig in Kampsville, Illinois, I knew he was my soul mate. After seeing my mom go through two divorces, it wasn’t easy to trust that true love exists. I love The Princess Bride as much as the next gal, but fairy tales don’t come true every day.
“Can you believe it was only a few months ago that we were backpacking in the Canyonlands?” I ask.
“Yeah, we should have known better than to tempt fate. I’m glad we didn’t know better.”
“My big plans of bouldering in Joshua Tree vanished when we met for a week in Moab. You replaced my dream of being the wild and free wanderer of my imagination with this beautiful dream of traveling the world with my true companion—the one that finishes my sentences and loves all my faults,” I say, looking for confirmation.
Josh gives it. “The one who knows your deepest secrets and monsters yet is still willing to stand at your side.”
“Good thing I have no skeletons in my closet.”
He pulls me close and holds me as if lending me his strength.
“Whatever, I need no man’s strength,” I say and turn away as if waiting for Josh to console me, before jumping on top of him.
“Gotcha!” I shout out in victory, somehow forgetting he is an army ranger now and can handle my fake protest.
He wrestles me beneath him, and it feels so good to be so close. Raw strength and manliness emanate from his body, but his will controls and restrains it. He wants me and isn’t afraid to show it, but he will not demand it either—only stating the facts, no neediness, no need to dominate, only desire in its truest form. I respond by being present in the situation. The only thing that matters is his hand on my waist, caressing the depths of my soul. I feel his touch on my skin, but the burn goes far deeper. It scorches away all resistance, the past inhibitions, and all fear. He is my husband now. Feeling secure and trusting the truth of his love, I can let go and be vulnerable. Our relationship remains solid and positive.
Now married for a few months, we lay in bed with the lights off. I know I will wake up happy next to Josh in forty years. We will sit on a swing porch, looking out at the sunset, with our kids and grandkids running circles around us. Josh is all I ever want. I drift off in the peaceful grace of surrender found only in the deepest sleep.
Then things begin to change.
Endless hours drift by in dark slumber before a familiar nightmare jolts me awake. Who touched me? What was that? Dark dreams of personal invasion enter my waking awareness. I cower in frightened repose.
“What’s that? Who’s there? Stay away! Back the
fuck off!” I yell out to the shadows of the dark room. Josh leans over to hold me closer to him, but I push him away. “Get away!” I yell, not knowing where I am. “Back off!” I yell, curling into myself.
Josh tries to shake me awake, “It’s me. I’m here. Wake up!” My thoughts keep me locked in a nightmare of the past that makes no sense.
“Get off of me!” I yell at Josh pushing him so hard he falls off the bed and hits his head on the nightstand. When I realize what I’ve done, I cry out, feeling terrible for Josh.
The nightmares don’t go away. Days then weeks go by with me unable to handle his touch. Every attempt at intimacy triggers this horrific defense system that seems disproportionate to the loving physical attempt at closeness. Josh can’t touch me without triggering full-on panic in me. As a married couple, this is less than ideal. Josh comes to the conclusion that it’s because I am cheating on him.
“What is wrong with me?” I plead.
“Who else do you want to be with?”
“What are you talking about! You can’t even touch me. How could I stand anyone else?”
He raises his eyebrows in skepticism.
“Josh, how can you think that!” Three months into living together, our first fight is horrible. “I don’t understand why this is happening!”
His muscular body reminds me of that of an alpha gorilla. Puffing out deep breaths, stomping back and forth, shouting at me incoherently.
“I am not screwing around,” I protest.
Our debate always ends with cold shoulders and bitter silence. What is wrong with me? What am I doing to him? The one man I love beyond question.
We try to adapt and keep on with our lives. I work at a bar as a waitress, and Josh is at the army base in Savannah. Our relationship continues to deteriorate.
One night after a shift, two strangers invite me to their place where a work party is in progress. Knowing Josh is out of town and not in the mood to go home to an empty house, I agree to go. The faulty logic is obvious in hindsight. I close out my till for the night and go to the address they gave me to find no party. Only two drunk guys who want me to continue serving their drinks. Twisted. Then they take out their badges. They are ATF agents on a stakeout. Shit. What did I stumble into? They question me about a coworker, his hours, habits, and personal business. Not knowing him, I have little to offer. They give me a drink and tell me not to be afraid. Is this an interrogation, stakeout, or date rape? None of those possibilities are positive. While only twenty years old, I’m not that stupid. My philosophy of “the universe will provide and protect” doesn’t cover blatant ignorance. I play along with their games until I find an opportunity to push one guy over. I leap at the chance to duck by the other agent and run out the door.
Freaking out and terrified, I can’t wait to get to the safety of home. I wish Josh was home. He could protect me from the ATF freaks. No hope there: he’s off base for a few more days. I drive away, checking my rearview mirror constantly in case they’re following me. Fear owns me. My only impulse is to get away. Instinct overrules logic, and I drive fast.
“Josh! Where are you?” I rush home as if hoping to find him.
To my surprise, he is there. Sitting with crossed arms on the hood of his cherry-red Ford truck.
Relief floods through me. Thank the gods! Josh can protect me. I am full of worry that the two guys followed me. Then I get a closer read on Josh’s body language—not happy.
“Josh, what happened? How are you home early? I am so relieved to see you. You won’t believe what happened! I am so glad you are home,” I say, running towards him, ready to jump into his arms. He shakes his head as if I am lying about something. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“What were you doing with those guys?” he demands.
“What guys do you mean?” I ask. I receive an ice-cold glare. Assuming he means the two I am running from, “They are ATF agents looking for answers I don’t have.”
My explanation washes over Josh. He has his own ideas of the truth.
“What, do you think I am lying?” I ask. Josh demands we go into the house to talk. His jealous anger repels me, and I refuse to follow him. “What gives you the right to tell me what to do?” I demand.
Josh says, “I am your husband, and you have been cheating on me. I have all the right. I followed you into the hotel. I know you were with them.”
“What are you talking about?”
He lunges close to me with his shoulders raised and muscles tensed as if ready to pounce. “I sat there at the bar all night watching you flirt with those two guys,” he says.
“I don’t flirt! I have to be cordial to people. It’s what the owner of the bar expects. I am never inappropriate. I didn’t treat those guys any different than I would gals. I’m being nice to get tips, so we can get money for our house repairs.” My voice rises in anger and self-righteousness.
My words bounce off his stone-cold exterior, and I realize I don’t recognize the man before me. We are free spirits. Wild and free soul mates. I didn’t cheat on him tonight and never could. I want to go back in time to our peaceful double-wide. Why should I suffer his jealous rages? I would never hurt him.
After being married only six months, unable to handle the mutual disappointment, we split up. We find different places to live while waiting for the final divorce papers.
Josh’s parents come to town and search me out. “You are a schizophrenic. If not, you have multiple personality disorder. You destroyed our son. How could you do that to him? What can you say for yourself?”
They don’t stop at that. Coworkers from the gym I part-time at turn their heads as we walk into a back office. “We trusted you,” his dad says. Disappointment cuts right through me. I look up to my father-in-law. His features knot up in hatred and his hard eyes corroborate my guilt over Josh and my catastrophic relationship failure.
Savannah feels so far from home. Under their scrutiny, I zone out for a moment and my mind drifts to trees. Rooted yet flexible in the wind. The Spanish moss–laden oak trees of Savannah send my imagination to a realm of archaic magic and possibility. History fills each tree with the old stories, new hopes, and wisdom. Walking through the trees of Savannah, I am taken away to a world where I dance among the birds, butterflies, and into the shining rays of the sun. The ghosts of Savannah dance with me in wild abandon, free among the trees, cobblestones, and flowers. Coming back to the present moment of reality, I hear my mother-in-law.
“Where did Josh go?” she screams at me. I have no idea what she’s talking about and it must show on face. “He’s AWOL. He could be dead for all you care,” she hisses out through tight lips, unable to contain her disgust.
Still swept up in the peace of the imaginary Spanish moss caressing my cheek, her comment doesn’t register. Numbness permeates my skin, and I feel about five feet above my body, wishing I could go farther than that. I have no defense that seems worth offering.
“I don’t know where he went. I wish I did.” Inside I am dying. I want to scream back at them, “Where is he? Is he safe? Why didn’t he call you, his parents?! I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry. I love him. I miss him. I don’t know what to do. Help me find him.” But the words stay stuck in my throat.
They only want to attack me, the one who destroyed the good life their son had worked so hard to build. Thinking of where their son might be scares them. Everything tells me I deserve this, that it is my fault, so I don’t fight back. I don’t want to hurt them more than they already are.
Preparing to leave, they have final words of advice for me. “Get yourself checked into a mental institution and never leave. Never speak to our son again. You are toxic. We wish he had never met you.”
Knowing this is the last time I will see them, I keep my eyes glued to their retreating bodies and the last connection to Josh I will know.
“Bye, Mom and Dad. I didn’t
mean to fall in love with your son. I wish we could have made our dream a reality, but we failed,” I whisper.
That February, humiliated and ashamed at how our marriage fell apart, I drive to Minneapolis in a beat-up car I bought and repaired on my own. As the drive takes me farther and farther from my soul mate and our shared dreams, I struggle to understand what happened and why. My dog, Aquila, an Alaskan husky and Siberian mix, is anxious on the drive back. Anytime I leave the car, he gnaws at the car’s upholstery and tears it apart. I don’t blame him. I feel the same way on the inside. By April 1999, less than nine months after we’d wed, Josh and I are officially divorced.
I need a new plan. Josh and I spoke about one day hiking the Appalachian Trail on the East Coast. Together, we hiked parts of the trail through the Smoky Mountains. I need to plan out my path to freedom again and to find myself after these destructive past few months.
I am a twenty-year-old divorcee. I don’t want to hike the Appalachian Trail, which seems more of a group camping experience than a solo quest. I need to be out there alone. I will hike the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) to confront my demons. When you are all alone, you have nowhere to hide from yourself. I crave that stillness after living in a city for six months. I need the PCT. I need to walk and to think of nothing but the twenty miles of trail ahead of me and the logistics of making it to the next camp.
I spend March, April, and early May hiking around the Twin Cities with my two dogs and my backpack loaded. I hike twenty miles a day through the city streets, parks, and greenways. I put on my ridiculously large pack, fill it with water bottles for weight, and then hook the dogs to a belt. I choose a destination ten miles away, walk there and back, traipsing amid office workers in business suits all over downtown Minneapolis and Saint Paul.
Epic Solitude Page 4