Resolve fills me. I don’t care if I crack my knee with every step—I will keep walking. Every step forward is a step closer to my truth, my dream, my self.
“Whatever the pain, whatever the cost, that is a step I promise to keep making every day of my life,” I vow aloud to the moon. Or, rather, to myself.
Pacific Crest Trail, Mile 850
Sendall Pass, California | 1999
With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.
—Eleanor Roosevelt
I wake up the next day feeling like a train hit me. It is tough to roll out of my sleeping bag. Blisters form on my nose and cheeks. Water drenches my shoes. I have nine miles to go before starting another climb of 3,500 feet to the 10,800-foot Sendall Pass. As I start the day’s journey, I trip in snow blindness over almost every rock in front of me. This goes on until I reach the ford of Evolution Creek (see fig. 10).
This monster is sixty feet wide and chest deep with fast moving water. Things are not looking good. Moving forward is the only option. When I slip, no one can return my scream but the raging river. When I make it to the other side, no one can hear my roar of triumph but the raging river.
Onward I go, wet and humble, one more mile. Then, I begin to bawl. My tears flow faster than the river—tears of frustration, sadness, and tremendous grief. After yesterday’s efforts over Muir Pass, I’ve been thinking about things—the choices made, the wrong actions taken, the dark nightmares of being attacked. As long as I keep hiking the nightmares stay at bay, but the memory of them persists. All Josh did was love me, yet I was unable to let him touch or even kiss me. The aftermath is hitting home hard. Does Josh miss our friendship as much as I do? I never even said goodbye. Does he look up at those same stars and wonder why? Tears of regret keep falling and will not stop. For five miles I stagger down the trail like a drunk.
I sit down to eat half of my breakfast ration hoping to quell the tears. My eyes are so burnt I can’t wipe the tears away. I take out a letter from Mom who sent me a parable to read:
I’m sitting in a quiet room at an inn hidden back among the pine trees. It is just past noon in late July. I listen to the desperate sounds of a life-or-death struggle going on a few feet away.
There’s a small fly burning out the last of its short life’s energies to fly through the glass of the windowpane. The whining wings tell the poignant story of the fly’s strategy. Try harder. But it’s not working.
The frenzied effort offers no hope of survival. The struggle is part of the trap. It is impossible for the fly to try hard enough to succeed at breaking through the glass. This little insect has staked its life on reaching its goal through raw effort and determination. The doomed fly will die there on the windowsill.
A door is open ten steps away. Ten seconds of flying time and this small creature could reach the outside world it seeks. With only a fraction of the effort now being wasted, it could be free of this self-imposed trap. The breakthrough possibility is there. It would be so easy.
Why doesn’t the fly try another approach, something different? How did it get so locked in on the idea that only this route and effort offers the most promise for success? What logic is there in continuing without results until death?
No doubt this approach makes sense to the fly. Sadly, it’s an idea that will kill. Trying harder isn’t the solution to achieving more. It may not offer any real promise for getting what you want out of life. In fact, it’s a big part of the problem.
If you stake your hopes for a breakthrough on trying harder than ever, you may kill your chances for success.
Mom finishes by stating, “Darling, don’t be the fly at the window. Try the door. People with open arms are on the other side of that door just waiting and wanting to help you.” She lists each person in my life who cares for my well-being. She ends with, “Let us.”
I read it until I calm down and stop hyperventilating. Her words give me the strength to continue up Sendall Pass. After 2,500 feet of climbing, I approach a lake. Next to it is a sign that reads Sierra Coolers 18¢. What? Maybe I’m hallucinating. I look over to see a family of three: Tom and Jenny Reynolds with their sixteen-year-old son, Allen. They are the first people I have seen in two days. I stumble over and, wow, do they ever take care of me. A Sierra Cooler comprises lemonade and rum. I have two. I eat dehydrated apples and two entire burritos. More food than I have eaten in days. The Angels Reynolds and their Sierra Coolers give me courage to enjoy the remaining climb.
The next section of the trail has gorgeous hiking with bushes, shrubs, and evergreens mixed in with the snow—and lakes everywhere. The south side of the pass is quick and relaxed, the snow still hard and easy to walk on. Looking north, I am struck with nostalgia. The view below reminds me of Christmas. The trees even have snow-topped branches. With ice on the lakes, countless streams, and boulders strewn about, I find myself in an endless Flintstones-like natural playground.
I soon come up to the next obstacle: Bear Creek. This is the worst ford yet. It is late in the evening, six thirty, so the water level is high. This will not end well. Things start out okay, but within ten feet of the opposite shore, the water sweeps my feet out from under me. I fall victim to the current, slam into the water, and rush down Bear Creek. I keep the pack above the surface until I inhale too much water. The pack falls underwater, and my first thought is to hope that the plastic bag holding my journals doesn’t have a hole in it.
I tie my pack to my waist and the two of us bump along the bottom of Bear Creek. My foot takes root between two rocks, forcing me to stop. The pack, however, continues past me and pulls my body under, submerging my head once more. I pull on the rope tying me to the pack to get my head above water and drag the pack back against the force of the current. My foot twists between the rocks; it is the only thing preventing me from continuing my downstream voyage.
I lean into the current and take a deep breath, not knowing what to do. This isn’t something you can prep for by hiking the streets of Minneapolis, and the situation will deteriorate if I don’t think of something soon.
Looking downstream, I notice about eight feet away a tree that has fallen into the water. If I can get my foot out and take two big leaps toward the shore, I think I may be able latch onto it. I get a rope from my pack, tie one end to my wrist and the other to my ice ax. My ankle is killing me, but the pain allows me to focus on my plan. It takes three throws to wrap the ice ax around a solid branch, giving me a very mediocre amount of confidence it might hold.
As I visualize the next action, the tears from a few hours ago are all but forgotten. There is no Josh, no loss, no family sorrow, no grief, no depression. There is only this one present moment.
I am ready. I reach down to pull my ankle free. After ten seconds of squirming, my foot pops out and down the creek I go. I find what footing I can and try to leap toward the tree. I can’t see it and have to guess on its direction. I take another big leap and can see I’m still two feet from my mark as I pass by the tree. No! My heart falls. Then I remember the rope. It’s still anchored to the branch. It yanks my body to a halt and forces my body weight onto my wrist and ax. A long moment goes by as I wait for the ice ax to pull lose, but it holds. I creep up the rope, pushing my weight into the creek bed to take the pressure off my hands. Three feet to go, two feet to go, one foot left, and I make it. I latch onto the log but don’t stop to think about it. I retrieve the ax and use it to help me crawl along the slippery log. Within a minute I am on the far shore, sprawled out, and shaking with adrenaline. I check out my pack. All my things are intact and, thanks to garbage bags, still dry.
I let my heart rate slow before exclaiming, “That was awesome!”
I limp on a few more miles before calling it a day.
Pacific Crest Trail, Mile 1,094
Yosemite, California | 1999
Most people are on the world not in it—have no conscious
sympa
thy or relationship to anything about them—
undiffused, separate, and rigidly alone like marbles of
polished stone, touching but separate.
—John Muir
I’ve been sick for days. My weakness is increasing. Today I wake up feeling ravenous. I fill up on oatmeal and walk. Within minutes, I throw it all up as I start down the trail. I do the best I can to maintain my fast pace and high mileage. The queasiness never leaves me. I haven’t held food down in a week. What can be wrong? I figure it’s the flu and will disappear in a few days. The trail is wearing on me, I can tell. I am also distressed by my financial situation. I need cash to see a doctor, but I have none.
Thinking to rest, I continue with my plan to detour into Yosemite National Park, a place that has forever been on my list of destinations. I jump on a free bus tour operated by the Park Service to bring me farther into the park.
My stomach holds out until fifteen minutes from the end of the tour. While the bus is still moving, I leap out to run to the nearest bathroom. My stomach doesn’t wait, and I puke right there in Yosemite Village. I spend the next half hour on the toilet. I am humiliated.
I run into Paul, a fellow hiker who has been keeping pace with me on and off for the last few hundred miles. He offers insight into my health crisis saying, “I bet the giardia bug got you from a bad water source a ways back.”
The trail out of Yosemite is at least five feet wide, the typical minimum tourist standard. It is beautiful out here—Yosemite National Park the way people should experience it, hearing the encompassing rush of the raging, ever-changing Merced River. I vow to not take the river’s multifaceted demeanor for granted. It is now full of life, and sometimes you can hear it flowing through the veins it has carved out in the earth. If you listen long enough, voices ring out through the constant water chorus. Laughter and drums seem to form a backdrop for an unusual orchestra, providing the ear with delightful compositions—at first in fortissimo, shouting through to your consciousness, but as your ears meld to the Merced’s song, the subtleties shine through. Its underlying melodic intricacies forever impress their gifts on the listening soul.
Truth lingers in the heart, and the heart senses the message of the river: Remain wild and free. This truth sings out beyond the canyon walls, beyond the sequoia forest, beyond the snowy mountain passes, beyond the mysterious blue of a twilight sky, beyond vibrant Venus shining bright upon the sleeping world, beyond the starry sky, and straight through to the heart of the universe, where my heart resides in peace, there to remain wild and free.
After twenty-five miles, my stomach calls it quits. I set up camp, and a short while later, Paul comes along and decides to join me. I start a fire and relax under the open sky of stars. It is Paul’s birthday today, so I use toothpaste to decorate a cake for him, which I fashion out of Bisquick and Hershey bars.
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” I say.
It is a dry night out, so there is no need to set up a tarp over my sleeping bag. I lie down in my bag with my backpack under my head, and as I drift off into deep dreams of ice cream, something nudges me and shuffles my bag around. I peek open one eye and see a big black bear’s head hovering over my own. It is sniffing my hair and my backpack. I left something in my bag. Oh no—the toothpaste!—I forgot to tie it up in the tree with everything else.
I call out to Paul. For some reason, I am not afraid and feel no danger. I realize the bear doesn’t want to hurt me but is only hoping for a midnight snack. The problem is that I need his midnight snack and can’t give it up. As Paul wakes and stands up, the bear grows alarmed. It grabs my backpack in its teeth and takes off with it. I am in shock but uninjured.
“Wait, I need my pack!” I yell out to the bear. I jump up and chase after it, yelling at the top of my lungs, “That’s my pack! Drop it!”
The bear stops, looks back at me, and calls my bluff. I keep screaming, stomping my feet, and waving my arms like I am having a temper tantrum. The bear drops my pack and runs off. Paul and I stand in stillness for a long while.
“What just happened?” he asks,
“No clue,” I say. “Can you believe the bear dropped the pack and ran?”
“What just happened?” Paul asks again.
I laugh, and that helps to drive away the terror hovering over this in-the-moment survival scenario. As a hiker, I have been taught, “If a bear is black, fight back. If brown, stay down.” There is no catch phrase for when a bear has snatched everything you own in the world from under your head while you are sleeping.
I find myself looking over my shoulder with increased frequency during the rest of the hike. I was lucky that time, but I need to be more trail-smart if I want to get through this in one piece.
A few days later, my stomach condition only deteriorates further. Things go okay until I eat. Breakfast lasts about a half hour before my stomach goes though contracting convulsions. I don’t bother with lunch. The terrain has changed now from mountains to rocky canyons full of color and life. In this glaciated land, there are steep climbs with only a few passes in between and more rivers to ford. Brooks meander through the canyons, offering a haven for heinous mosquitoes.
The last six miles from Benson Pass to Benson Lake is a steep trail down, and the ground is under water or snow. I slip twice and get covered from head to toe in mud (see fig. 11).
It is hard to find the trail. I stop around five o’clock for dinner. Weak yet starving, every bite I eat hits me hard. I can’t even breathe. My stomach cramps up so bad I puke at least three times. Needing money to get to the doctor, I will have to take a break from the trail to find a job for a couple of weeks. Lake Tahoe is sixty miles away—if I can make it that far.
Sun Dance
Northeast Arizona | 1999
There are no words. Yet, the drum speaks.
I have died and am now reborn in the mother’s womb.
Through Prayer I learn to pray.
Through Singing, I learn to sing.
Through Dance, I learn to dance.
Spirits voice melds to mine, singing up to the stars, and
whispering into the winds.
They have blessed me with the gift of death
so that all may heal.
There are no words. Yet, the drum is speaking.
Hóka-héy.
—Journal entry, July 14, 1999
My time on the Pacific Crest Trail ends on Independence Day after 1,100 miles of hiking. The bout of giardia leaves me so sick with vomiting and diarrhea that I can barely walk. I get off the trail at Echo Lake with plans to work for a couple weeks in Lake Tahoe and get healthy before setting out on the trail again.
Wandering the streets of Lake Tahoe amid jarring casinos and night life, I am uncomfortable in the city. I’ve grown accustomed to the hushed serenity of the forests with towering trees rising high above in place of these flickering lampposts. Feeling disheartened, I have no real idea of where to go. I stumble across a beach undisturbed by other vagrants and roll out my sleeping bag.
The next day, I clean myself up and put on a dress that Mom sent me. I get a job at Cowboys, a local diner. With a generous payroll advance, I find a clinic to prescribe me Flagyl and begin my road to recovery. I frequent Starbucks to drink my homeless version of an iced latte: cheap iced coffee to which I add free half-and-half along with two raw sugar packets. For the next two weeks, I work at Cowboys and explore the north and south shores of Lake Tahoe. Once I’ve paid back the cash advance and have $200 in my pocket, it’s time to resume the PCT. Off the trail my nightmares resume at once with a fervor.
I put in my notice and agree to pull a few more days of shifts. To feed my reading habit, I stop in at a nearby bookstore hoping for instant guidance on how to eliminate these night terrors that still plague me. While perusing the Buddhism section, I stumble upon an intriguing book about vision quests. I devour the book in the store and put it back
on the shelf because I don’t actually have money to purchase it. But I’ve found my next dance. While the PCT still calls, I first have to detour on a vision quest.
Having no vehicle, I hitchhike to Mount Shasta, hearing gossip that this is a likely location to find a vision quest guide. Through happenstance and synchronicity, my travels take me through Arcata, California, down the coast and east to Arizona, and onto the Navajo reservations of northern New Mexico. Weeks of searching pay off when I find my spiritual mecca and vision quest at a sun dance ceremony.
The sun dance is a historic, cultural, and spiritual practice of Native Americans, and an ideal place for my first introduction to mescaline, the hallucinogenic substance found in the peyote cactus. I studied peyote for years, and its healing and teaching properties fascinate me. Sun dance grounds are sacred. Dancers pray for unity, peace, and healing. They suffer for the benefit of all. There are fifteen dancers, six people at the drum circle, a fire keeper, and maybe fifteen supporters. The first night of the sun dance is my twenty-first birthday.
We are on 150 acres of land provided by a gracious host named Standing Bear. The arbor circle has an alder tree in the center around which the dancers revolve for four days—four days with no food or water, without ever leaving the circle. Women have eagle feathers piercing their arms or backs. Men have pegs piercing their chests and backs. Both tie themselves to the tree from their body piercings. At the ceremony’s climax, they jump away from the alder tree, pull the pegs and nearby skin from their bodies in an act of painful personal sacrifice. The skin torn from their bodies is placed in a prayer bag and tied to the alder tree.
The lead dancer’s back is pierced by two pegs to which a buffalo skull is attached. He carries the fifty-pound skull, with honor, for over nine hours. Dancers are out there for us, for their family, for their community, for the anguish of those they love and all those whom they have yet to meet. Contained in the buffalo skull is the world’s pain, dragging the lead dancer down and pulling him to the ground. He blacks out at least five times. My heart weeps for his valor. He has a powerful prayer. It takes four men to yank the skull from his back causing sweet deliverance—total freedom, rebirth, a new beginning. All that grief, all the history, all our remorse and torment, all of it dissipates when the skull falls to the ground. The world is reborn.
Epic Solitude Page 6