August -2015

Matt helps me into my backpack. I lean forward letting the full weight of the pack fall onto my back like a turtle’s shell and I clip the waist belt. I adjust the shoulder straps and clip them together, grab my hiking poles and start down the trail. I’m leaving Cinko Lake in the Hoover Wilderness. 9,120 feet. I’m getting a head start on Matt and Paul. They will catch up to me soon. I’m moving slowly on this trip and feeling bad about it. The trail skirts the edge of the lake and I see glimpses of it through the trees, granite cliffs reflecting in the still, blue water.

The trail curves away from the lake and climbs through a lush meadow with the last trickle of winter snow-melt feeding it. One last glance at the lake, dotted with fish rising. High Sierra beauty. This is what I am looking for out here. Beauty. Serenity. It’s overwhelming. The tears flow as thoughts of John hit me profoundly and suddenly.

Alone on the trail I feel empowered but also a little afraid. My mind meanders and I lose the trail for a moment in a carpet of pine-cones. I second guess my path. Could I have missed the Pacific Crest Trail turnoff? My rational brain reminds me that the PCT will look like a freeway by comparison. I’m completely immersed in my solitude. Falling into my own pace, my unique cadence comforts me. No lingering feeling of shame about lagging behind. No pressure to keep up. I connect the experience with the words from the grief counselor. “We grieve at our own pace.”

A slight bit more anxiety that I still haven’t met up with the PCT. Trust my instincts. Use my brain. I think about my instincts associated with the last year of grief. Give myself a year I said. Feel the pain. Cry. Do what feels right. Don’t push it.  So far it is what I need.  I’m not sure how I’ll feel at a year.  I don’t know what lies ahead on this trail any more than I know what lies ahead as I grieve.

Finally, my trail meets up with the PCT. My instincts were correct. The PCT looks like a well-tended autobahn by comparison. Rocks line the trail. There are stairs chiseled from granite.

I marvel at the monumental undertaking to create the network of trails here, throughout the Sierras and all wild spaces. At some point, a crew of people spent a whole summer out here blasting stone and shoving it into place. Most likely with timber levers. There is no way to get a bulldozer out here. I offer up a silent appreciation for those who have sacrificed for me to have this trail and this experience.

I connect that thought to the crew of my friends who have helped maintain the virtual path I’ve walked as I’ve grieved this past year. I send another gratitude out into the clear blue sky. Thank you to those who have have called, messaged, written. Those who have brought food and little gifts. Cards and hugs and invitations to dinner. Thanks to the people who have cried with me, handed me tissues, not been shaken when I’ve broken down, those who have broken down with me, those who have held me when I’ve broken down. Those who continue to be there for me almost a year later when it’s still impossibly hard.

The dusty trail of the PCT is a tapestry of hiking boot treads  heading north and south. Who do they belong to? How far did they come? Where are they going? What stories accompany them? I remember the fresh faced young women we encountered a month ago along the ridge of Squaw Valley where the PCT creeps through. Sisters in their very early twenties from Wisconsin who had begun their journey at the Mexican border. They must have been here weeks before that, about two months ago. I think of the people who walked my path with me over the last year. Some out of curiosity, some reluctantly, some with love, with regularity. Some once. Some a few times. Some weekly.  Those hikes have saved me.  I”ll be hiking for a long time.

I’ve settled into my solitude, lost in my thoughts, respecting my body’s pace. I’m well down a hot, steep trail that’s all switchbacks. By the sixteenth switchback the forest is starting to fill in. I’m feeling good. Alive. Capable. Strong even. I hear a whistling, a singing behind me. Footsteps. It’s Matt!

“Hey Mom! You’re fast!” He smiles a half smile. “Dad asked me to catch you and tell you to wait for him.”

We find two fallen logs in the shade and sit facing each other. We talk a little and then fall silent for a while. It’s not long before Paul appears and we continue down the trail. All three of us together.