In preparation for the PCT, I read a book on the nutritional wonders of corn and end up purchasing a variety of corn snacks, corn pasta, and corn nuts to get me through. Everything is on a budget, and I pack my bags according to the directions in the PCT guidebook. I have little money, so there is no room for error. I sell my plasma twice a week to afford materials for the next supply box.
On May 16, 1999, I am on a Greyhound bus heading out west to the Pacific Crest Trail. Everything I need to survive this life is on my back, and I am ready to face whatever Mother Nature throws at me. Something greater than myself lies ahead, and I am about to change my life one step at a time. I have never embarked on such a journey before. This is the right action and the right time for this quest. I carry a titanium ice ax but do not understand how to use it. I will cross the Sierra Nevada even though I know snow blankets the high-altitude terrain. None of the details matter. I will figure it out as I go and hope for understanding and healing.
I need a cure. The frequency of disabling nightmares has only increased. What demons am I running from? I don’t know the answer, but I am sure that this three-thousand-mile hike is the only way I will find them.
Pacific Crest Trail, Mile 45
San Bernardino, California | 1999
“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread,
places to play in…where Nature may heal and cheer
and give strength to body and soul alike.”
—John Muir
I wake up to an orchestra of birds serenading my campsite. Peering out of my lightweight tarp, I look out upon a ceiling of clouds that entice me to walk on their illusionary solidity. The sun, still waiting to come out from its morning cloud cover, makes me wonder why I am out of my sleeping bag.
“Don’t rush the sun,” the birds sing about the beautiful morning. Looking out onto the horizon, I realize there are few moments or events that stir the soul as much as the sun at dawn and dusk. Maybe there is happiness out there for me yet.
As I gaze at the sunrise’s white warmth, I understand that, wherever I end up, I need to see the sunrise, sunset, and all the starry nights between. I am now three days on the PCT and am full of relief after finishing a good amount of uphill climbing.
The trail offers a different reality: being in complete solitude day after day. The rhythm of walking is music to my soul. There is only walking, existing, and healing. Life is cut down to the core necessities of eating, sleeping, shelter, warmth, and survival. Nature challenges us to adapt and survive.
My twenty-six-mile day is at a close, and I walk fast, anticipating a delicious dinner of corn pasta. I saunter past a waist-high sage bush when I hear the loud deep-throated growl of a mountain lion five feet away. I recall recent trail warnings about mountain lions attacking runners and cyclists. I ignored the warnings, falsely believing that I would not be running into their territory.
I pull out my ice ax for self-defense. I grip the handle, feel more prepared, and breathe out nervous fear.
I creep away, not daring to run, worried that I might cross a den. What is it doing so close to the trail? The trail switchbacks and goes ten feet under the same spot. I’d be stupid to cross that location again. I skip down and sand-slide to the next switchback with the ice ax poised in front of me. I continue for six more switchbacks, when suddenly there is a high-pitched buzz demanding my attention.
A foot in front of me, an upright rattlesnake lies in wait. Jumping back, I scream. The snake’s rattling tail gives clear warning that I must alter my path. I backtrack to the trail, looking out for predators, then run down along the trail. Wanting distance between me, the rattlesnake, and the mountain lion, I push on and try to make it down to the creek before dark. After another half mile, I hear another mountain lion in the bush off the trail in front of me. Is it the same one? Is it a mate? Out of options, I run back up the trail to where I remember seeing a fellow PCT camper.
“Hey, there are mountain lions on the trails,” I yell out to my unknown hiking compadre. “My name is Kat.”
“Hi. I’m Sean,” a voice from inside the tent hollers out. “At least we know they are here. No sneak attacks coming for us.” He sounds comfortable with the situation, and my body relaxes.
“Are you cool if I camp out here with you?” I ask. “Long day,” I add, not wanting to sound like a total wuss.
“Hell yeah. Safety in numbers.”
I set up my lightweight tarp, wishing for a solid tent, and will hike out in the morning. It will not be a good night’s sleep between two mountain lions. Blisters plague my sore feet, but Bisquick on a stick by the fire will do my heart good.
Sean comes out of his tent to check on my camping set up. “Glad I have an enclosed tent tonight and not one of those flimsy tarps,” he teases.
“If you hear me scream, stay hidden,” I say sarcastically. “Do you need any water?”
“Nah, I’m good. There’s a source ten miles down the trail. Should make it. Thanks though. Sweet dreams.”
Deciding I like Sean, I sleep better knowing at least one other human might witness me getting eaten alive tonight. But the next day there are no signs of mountain lions, and I make my way to the next watering hole. I relax in the sun and tape up the multiple massive blisters on my feet. There has to be a way to wear shoes without pain.
Pacific Crest Trail, Mile 72
Mount Whitney, California | 1999
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,
to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could
not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die,
discover that I had not lived.
—Henry David Thoreau
I divert from the PCT to summit Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the Lower 48. Only 150 permits to Inyo National Forest are issued out of the 3,000 applications per day the Forest Service receives from mid-July to mid-August. All I had to do was walk over eight hundred miles to obtain a free Whitney permit and arrive a month early. I have my work cut out for me. I hike twenty-seven miles to the base of the mountain on the first day. The hike up to the next camp is twenty miles.
A month alone in the wilderness nurtures drastic transformation. The tranquility that grows in my heart allows me to discover communion with the green song all around. My recent divorce seems far away, and I pretend it never happened. Sublime peace enters my soul, leaving a permanent mark. In my introspective state, I haven’t talked with anyone for four weeks now. Spoken words only destroy the magic of the wilderness. I strive to make my soul a mirror of the raw grandeur that surrounds me. Hoping that when this pristine wilderness is no longer a part of my day-to-day life, my soul will retain the experience and exemplify the wild.
Snow and ice now cover half the trail, and I cross at least ten large snowfields at a nervy 60-degree angle or greater. The high altitude affects me, and I feel dizzy above 12,500 feet, but the climbing does not tire my legs, nor is my endurance tested. There is something quite intriguing about a methodical, laborious ascent of a mountain. It’s a test of willpower, a defiance of the nightmares that plagued my sleep and destroyed the dream life I longed for with Josh. Nothing will stop me. Slow footsteps, ice ax in hand, and heavy breathing create a rhythm to help maintain control of mind, body, and spirit.
When I reach the summit at 14,492.81 feet, I earn a new high-altitude personal record. I am the highest object for thousands of miles. I gaze out over the 360-degree view at hundreds of snow-covered peaks with no trees, no grass, and no desert. I long to lose myself and play in the corridors and passes of unknown wilderness forever. Tiny birds called flickers sit on my shoulder and eat gorp crumbs from my outstretched hands. The balance in nature is highlighted. Delicate life prances about on this resolute mountain. I understand what Hudson Stuck wrote when his party, the first to summit Denali, felt “a privileged communion with the high places of the earth.” It plants a se
ed, along with a hunger, to know more about high-altitude mountaineering. Josh would love it here.
The climb down Whitney is extraordinary, and I glissade two steep snow slopes in an invigorating descent. At the base are two big river fords, thigh-deep from cold snowmelt. The dramatic landscape changes from one vista to the next, and I yearn to experience what is beyond the horizon.
Tonight’s campsite is on a large, grassy plateau with an open view of the sky bordering Guitar Lake. Mount Whitney is now over ten miles in the past. Camping at 11,600 feet the temperature is just above twenty degrees Fahrenheit.
Mother Nature is the finest artist. Her dramatic use of color stimulates every cell in existence. I stare at the evening sky and watch how the sun works its magic, changing the blue sky into a myriad fiery hues. The mountains to the east hold a deep purple haze over their uppermost peaks, engulfing the sky below it. The crescent moon rises over the sharp gray ridgeline of Mount Helen in the Mount Whitney cirque. Over Whitney hangs the infamous Sierra Wave, a lenticular cloud with a flat wavy appearance indicative of high winds. A Sierra Wave holds layer after layer of clouds, each containing a new and varied shade that changes by the second. The pink backdrop goes from peach to a brilliant deep orange, through which I can see eternity. The immense setting sphere of light produces a fiery red to offer depth to the horizon’s canvas. Above, the sky turns from yellow to turquoise to midnight blue reaching out to where Venus lives to supervise and orchestrate the harmonic heavens.
The moon faces Venus and offers an invitation to come rest in its gentle cradle. The sun finishes her glorious display and lies down for the night. All is quiet. Even the winds are dying away to bring in the stillness of twilight, providing my soul complete nourishment. The sky transforms into deep midnight blue as the stars come out to light the night.
This is why I am out here. This is what I search for. Ask and you shall receive. A photograph cannot replicate the sound of a babbling brook, the taste of ice-cold mountain water, or the smell of crisp alpine air.
As I watch the sky before me, I ponder the most beautiful places I have been: the Grand Canyon during a lightning storm, rainbows coloring dismal mist in the ravines; a lonely ancient street in the heart of Pompeii as the sun sets on the red stones; the desert of Monument Valley at sunset, glorious shadows stretching for miles and miles; the desert at night with its eternal sky and a 360-degree horizon of stars touching the earth; apple orchards in the Dolomites of northern Italy that stretch from cottage to cottage, free for the picking; Savannah, Georgia, when the shadows from a bright orange moon dance over the Atlantic Ocean; a wide mountain meadow in Flagstaff, Arizona, during a meteor shower at midnight; that same meadow in autumn, when all the aspens are bright yellow, lighting the landscape with their fire. I can forever describe the world’s unsurpassed beauty.
Still, this high-altitude environment remains uncharted territory. I am enraptured with untouched places. I close my eyes to recall today’s hot sun and listen to the river flow through this grass-and-rock-filled meadow. I know God is here with me in every snowfield, babbling brook, mountain ridge, pass, and peak, in the flora and fauna, the dozens of marmots. I take a few deep breaths and hear the ice cracking on a nearby pool of water. A feeling comes over me that I cannot explain. My heart is overwhelmed by nature’s touch. Nothing else matters. Everything fades away. That’s when the tears come—tears of joy, splendor, love, and wilderness.
Despite being low on rations, I devour a bag of granola, half a cup of mashed potatoes, and a cup of powdered milk. Getting through this day is like passing a huge test of endurance, fortitude, and perseverance. I howl at the crescent moon. I am alive and loving every second.
Pacific Crest Trail, Mile 830
Muir Pass, California | 1999
What we are today comes from our thoughts of yesterday,
and our present thoughts build our life of tomorrow: our life
is the creation of our mind.
—Gautama Buddha
The next morning, back on the PCT, I wake up to climb 3,500 feet to Muir Pass (11,955 feet), named after John Muir who called California’s Sierra Nevada mountains the “Range of Light.” They represent all beautiful mountains in the world. I appear to be the first up the pass in days. No path, no trail, not even footsteps lie ahead. I am above the snow line by one o’clock in the afternoon. It is gorgeous, with great snow traverses rising diagonally hundreds of feet at a time up a large slope. Looking west, the sky is a vibrant mix of purple and green. The moon stands out as if it’s night. To the east, the sky lightens. It is as rich as a dream. I am on ancient glaciers traversed by people of long ago. The snow is solid; the sun’s heat has not made it mushy. I summit the pass at three o’clock to find the iconic stone hut built by the Sierra Club in 1930 and dedicated to John Muir. They built the hut from rocks around the pass as an emergency temporary shelter for unlucky hikers. Turns out it also houses yellow-bellied marmots that love to shriek at passersby (see fig. 9).
Despite my love of solitude, I wish Josh were here with me. He would treasure this more than existence itself. He and I should be here together making fun of the marmots scampering around Muir Hut. We would test fate by leaning into the cold, hard winds coming up over the pass to rip us of our past. Where he is right now? It has been over a year since our divorce, and his whereabouts are still unknown. I heard rumors that he went AWOL, that he has a girlfriend, that the Army stationed him in Italy. He is not my husband anymore, but I can’t stop loving him. I am hiking this insane trail trying to find myself, but how can I do that without him? He made me feel whole for the first time in my life.
Tears stream down my face despite my battle to not drown in the crushing sorrow that has been by my side since driving away from Savannah. Damn it. I am on top of the world. The wind can take my pain, take my hurt, take my shame, but the wind cannot make me whole, as he once did.
Refusing to be swallowed by sorrow, I make my way down the slopes, away from the Muir Hut. The afternoon sun melts the snow. I walk through a never-ending snow swamp, postholing up to my thighs. My gaiters offer little protection against the abrasive snow, which digs into my skin. There is still no trail, only an endless blanket of snow. I don’t even know if I am going in the right direction, but moving forward one slow step at a time feels like the right choice. Seven miles in pure, mushy snow with six knee-deep river fords makes my toes freeze. The landscape surrounding me is desolate, only snow and ice to keep me company. Gigantic mountain peaks watch over my suffering and don’t care for me and my infinitesimal feelings of pain.
“Why! Why aren’t you here with me, Josh? We should be together. I need you. I needed you to understand me. Why didn’t you care? Why didn’t you trust me? I loved you.” Yelling my frustrations into the deep-blue sky, I hear nothing but rushing water in reply. My inexperience expects the indifferent mountains to care about my struggles. Maybe if I yell my pain out loud enough, the silence will take my burden away. In solitude our souls can’t hide from distraction. My wounded soul rears up and won’t be silenced.
Josh and I are young, and maybe we can chalk up the mess to youth, but in my heart, I know we lost a chance at something beautiful, brilliant, and unique to us. Standing trapped in freezing water, I cry again in loneliness, realizing that it’s Father’s Day. I have no phone to call home, no way to talk to Dad and hear what he is doing right now. I bet he has some smoked meat going for dinner. My younger siblings, Tom and Kelly, are probably giving him the cheesy gifts that all young kids give their dads. They are both over ten years younger than me and love being outdoors just as much as I do. I long to hear Mom’s voice telling me everything will be fine. I am twenty years old and want the comfort only a mom can provide.
My body is having a rough time now. My face has blisters, my thighs are red, and my nose is peeling. My lips are burnt and blistered and host a lovely blend of pus and scar tissue. When I smile, my lips bleed. I ripped the skin on
my bottom lip off. My body burns from the sun and its bright snow reflection, which etches into my eyes for six wearying hours.
My pants chafe so much I have two huge six-inch square scars on my thighs, which makes walking very interesting. I change into nylon shorts and feel better. With shorts, my gaiters, and sports bra, I look like a beat-up warrior-princess on a journey to save the planet. If only I felt like a warrior. Standing here crying, stuck in water and snow, will not get me anywhere in life.
“Is this what I did all year?” I ask the mountain peaks surrounding me. “Have I been standing still, stuck in misery, too desperate to move?”
No answer. Or rather, the answer is obvious: Time to take a step forward. Time to accept that I made mistakes and hurt people. Time to move on.
“I can’t!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
The echo bounces off the snow and rock and returns to me in orchestrated harmony. This pisses me off.
“Who are you to tell me I can’t? I can do anything I put my mind to!” I cry out to the snow that is trapping me in my story of helpless victimhood.
“Fuck it,” I whisper with a stubbornly set jaw.
I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves and gather my grit before taking a large step. Holding my breath, I commit to the step only to fall through once more and crack my knee on a sharp rock.
“What was that for?” I demand of the mountain, swallowing bitter tears.
I watch the snow turn red with my blood. I want to live, to dream, to love, to laugh, to soar. I no longer care what the cost. I need to believe in myself again. I hope I can be who I am. Whatever that may be.
“Give me your all. I dare you!” I shout, this time at the moon.
Epic Solitude Page 5