Category: Camping

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PNT Section 15 – The Coast

PNT Day 73 – Darkness Abounds

Mile 1209.1 to mile 1218.5

We wake at 4am to begin the hike around Diamond Beach, which can only be safely completed at low tide. Walking with Starman and Skookum in the darkness the ocean is a roaring beast beside me, sounding all the more fearsome because I cannot see it. Mist and sea spray coat the air, reducing my world to a ten foot diameter ball from the light from my headlamp. To look anywhere besides the rocks at my feet is akin to shining one’s car brights into a snow storm. I find myself subconsciously drifting into the cliff face and away from the water, something in my mammalian brain knowing that the roaring of the sea brings only destruction.

But the darkness holds wonders as well. Starfish of every color dot the tide pools in which little fish and crustaceans dart and scurry about. Under my fingers the rough grit of barnacles lend purchase in this otherwise slippy, multi-dimentional world over which I am climbing. We wake an unenthusiastic seal pup who balks in our headlamp beams.

By the time we extricate ourselves onto Jackson Beach it is nearly 6:30am, the sky is beginning to lighten and our day is just beginning.

PNT Day 74 – Surfaces

Mile 1218.5 to mile 1232.2

We wake in the darkness. Again.The days are getting noticeably shorter and the onset of fall more apparent. Especially down here on the coast where the high, wet clouds keep the sun perpetually at bay and the temperatures cool. Unlike on the PCT the onset of fall is not a hike-ending deadline. Now that we are out of the Olympics there is no real danger of snow and the only timetable we are obliged to follow is the one that dictates the tides.

Today is all about walking, crawling, scampering across myriad surfaces. We hop across basketball sized rocks and then pick our way through boulders the size of cars covered and stinking with slick sea weed. When the beach becomes impassable we haul ourselves into the trees, using ropes and ladders to ease our way. It’s a short day, all told, and as we roll into camp a light mist is just beginning to fall. Only two days left on the trail.

PNT Day 75 – Dog Brain

Mile 1232.2 to 1245

The beach is alive today and we see so many things! Most of which I don’t know the names of, the beach being far from my home ecosystem. But there are seals bobbing in the gentle waves close to shore while pelicans soar out over the water. Close beneath our feet are innumerable crabs and baby sculpin fish darting around the tide pools. The abundance of wildlife has kept the beach interesting through what might otherwise become difficult hiking.

The key, I’m learning, about the beach is that it’s far better to be methodical than fast. There are just so many things to crawl over and around and through. To that add a slippy factor that cannot always be anticipated. Then, even when the rocks abate and we are left on sand, oftentimes it is soft and or made of pebbles, giving the feeling of walking through heavy snow. Instead I fall into a sort of meditative trance hopping from rock to rock. It’s halfway between intense focus and mind-numbing monotony. Skookum dubs this state “dog brain,” and I can tell from the lull in our conversation that we have all fallen into some version of it.

In the last few miles of the hike we are rewarded with firm, speedy sand and make the time camp quickly. Skookum is discontented with our first choice of campgrounds and so we set off to find a better one, scouting up and down the beach until at last Skookum finds the best beach campground we have had so far. It is perfect for our last night on trail and we spend the evening in companionable chatter, passing our extra snacks to the group, knowing we won’t need them after tomorrow.

PNT Day 76 – The End

Mile 1245 to mile 1249, Cape Alava/the Western Terminus of the PNT

There are four miles to Cape Alava. Four miles to the western most point of the contiguous US and the western terminus of the PNT. Four miles and we’re done with this big, ridiculous, challenging adventure that I’ve been on for the last two and a half months. An adventure that has seen me in tears and bleeding as well as joyous and powerful in some of the most beautiful places I have ever been. In talks with other hikers and trail angels it has become apparent that I am not the only thru hiker who has found the PNT difficult and at times downright taxing. So I am not surprised that the final miles of our hike are somewhat subdued.

Along an indistinguishable section of beach Starman glances at the maps on his phone and declares “I guess we’re here.” And I guess we are. I can see the buoy marker that points to the trail that will take us to the parking lot and eventually back to civilization. There is so little fanfare that I’m honestly delighted. To me, thru hiking has always been a deeply personal act because it is so pointless. It’s an act I don’t owe to anyone else and I cherish it for that. To complete a months-long goal with only two other people to even witness it is somehow profound and beautiful to me.

Our little group of three takes a moment to look at each other before eventually moving down the beach a little so we can climb up on a rock and take some pictures. This will be our terminus statue, this random beach rock. And these men, Skookum and Starman will be the people I finish this wild journey with. But really, we all finish alone, just as we all had to walk the miles to get here. I guess beyond anything I am grateful to this trail and proud to have finished.

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PNT Section 9 – The Pasayten Wilderness

PNT Day 37 – She’s so Heavy

Mile 622.7 to mile 638.2



Our ride drops us where the pavement ends and we get to walking. I feel heavy under eight days of food, like a giant thumb is pressing me into the earth. I pretend for a while that I am an astronaut on a strange world where the gravity is heavier than that of Earth’s and that I must labor on under the weight of my enormous pack to deliver goods to some far-flung colony.

Today we are entering the Pasayten Wilderness, the most remote and isolated part of the PNT. It will take Starman and I more than a week to cover the terrain between here and Ross Lake and until we do we will be well and truly alone.

PNT Day 38 – Easy Day

Mile 638.2 to mile 651.2



We’re aiming for an old cabin built during the tungsten mining era which is still standing and allows for camping inside. Which is perfect for three reasons. First, it’s only 13 miles into our day. Second, Starman slept terribly last night and is feeling our big day yesterday and is looking for a short day. And third, because it’s supposed to rain this afternoon/evening and I would rather be inside for that. I’m psyched. I love a lazy day on trail and will take any opportunity not to have to camp in the rain.

The trail undulates beneath my feet in a series of short, rolling climbs before rounding a corner and dropping us into a miles-long burn scar. Skeletal, lifeless trees with a riot of green understory promising new life. The sky, once a speckled white and blue is now a deep, angry purple. Then, the thunder starts followed shortly by the hail. By now we are less than three miles from the cabin and the forest has returned to it’s normal healthy self. However, both Starman and I are soaked from the building rain.

We arrive at the cabin during a break in the rain and use the brief spot of sun to dry our clothes and sweep the tiny, dilapidated cabin of dust. We spend the rest of the afternoon in companionable silence, listening to the rain fall on the roof of the old cabin.

PNT Day 39 – Tunnel Vision

Mile 651.2 to mile 671.5

Cathedral Peak dominates the ridgeline, commanding attention. I pull my eyes from their usual view of my feet in order to pay it an audience. On the PNT it’s easy to fall into tunnel vision, climbing and descending in the trees as we do so often. But the Pasayten Wilderness has provided many views already and I can feel my spirits lifting. While forests certainly contain their own type of beauty, I must admit that I have found myself more than a little bored by their relative sameness. I joke without kidding that I backpack for the views. And while I find joy in so many more aspects of these adventures I cannot deny that I am drawn to these wild places specifically for their beauty. For the views. For the high up places that allow me to see and feel small in return.

PNT Day 40 – Late Risers

Mile 671.5 to mile 691.5


Starman and I stay in camp late this morning, putzing around over nothing in particular and even watching a little TV. Our dawdling will bite us in the ass later tonight, though we don’t know it yet.

The day starts with a climb up to Bunker Hill through a bright green forest surrounded by a crown of jagged mountains. Then suddenly the forest disappears as does the trail as we enter another burn area. Our pace slows as we are forced to high step over hundreds of blow-downs.

We eventually reach the Pasayten River, racing against the setting sun and losing. When I trip, almost sending myself sprawling into the dirt we decide it’s time for headlamps and make the rest of our way to camp in the dark.

We set up camp on the porch of the Pasayten Wilderness airstrip porch, finally eating dinner at nearly 11pm and promising to learn our lesson and be up earlier tomorrow.

PNT Day 41 – 450 blow-downs

Mile 691.5 to mile 717.6 via the unofficial Woody Pass alternate


Somehow, dear reader, somehow I once again find myself standing chest-deep in a forest of blow-downs. Around me are the skeletal arms of trees both stretched skyward and strewn about the ground; everything smells of smoke.

Starman and I decide to make a game of counting how many blow-downs we have to navigate our way over, under, and around. At first it’s fun and takes my mind away from the jungle gym of soot-stained wood, but as our count climbs into the hundreds the humor is lost somewhat. The trail winds in and out of existence, forcing us to stop frequently to look for it before we can once again move forward. We decide, some hours into our ordeal, to discourage anybody else from following our alternate as it’s clearly as bad or worse than the original trail, which also navigates a bad burn through this section.


Finally, fucking finally the trees around us begin to bloom with green needles and we are released from the clutches of the burn scar. The trail is still hard to find at times and there are still downed trees to climb over but the going is easier and our pace accelerates until eventually we reach the PCT and everything changes. The trail, once little more than a trampled path through the grass expands to a perfect 18″ wide track of smooth, packed dirt. The grades are gentle and even on the climbs allow for a smooth and natural gait. We see PCT hikers! These are the fast kids who are making their way to Canada in record time and for a minute I long to be one of them. Nostalgia floods my very bones with my time on the PCT and my mood soars for the five miles that these two trails overlap.

However, soon my love affair with the PCT is over and we branch off to return to the fickle mistress of the PNT. As soon as our trail diverges we are once again surrounded by dead standing trees, meaning our planned campground is a no-go and we are once again forced to walk into the fading light to find a place to camp. The climb is steep but mercifully short and the sky overhead burns orange with the last rays of sunset. With time we are eventually gifted a lumpy meadow where we can rest.

PNT Day 42 – Feeling It

Mile 717.6 to mile 735.3, Ross Lake

Some days just feel harder than others and today was one of those days. On paper, today was nothing special; 17 miles with 2,800 feet of gain and 5,000 feet of loss. And yet everything moved like molasses. Even now it’s hard to write about it because the day just dragged. I think in part because this has been our longest and in some ways most challenging and remote section of the trail so far and I’m really beginning to feel it. We had planned to do this section in eight days and were able to push hard and make it in seven. But that pushing came at the cost of effort and fatigue and that manifested in moving in slow motion today. But tomorrow we make it to the highway and then we’re going to treat ourselves to a double zero in the cute western town of Winthrop.

PNT Day 43 – Top Surgery

Mile 735.3, Ross Lake to mile 746.9, East Bank Trailhead then a hitch into Winthrop, WA

On days like today, as I peel every disgusting layer off my body I am immensely grateful for the fact that one of them is not a bra. People who wear them already know the agony, those who have never had to wear a one will never understand the pain. Of this, I am free. And I know it’s not #transdayofvisibility or whatever, but choosing top surgery is something I appreciate every day on trail and is one of the things I love most about my transness.

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PNT Section 3 Eureka to Yaak

PNT Day 11 – And Then There Were Two

Mile 150.7 to mile 161.2

Starman and I begin hitching under the midday sun but by the time we arrive at the trailhead the clouds have knit themselves closed to form a cool blanket. It’s just the two of us on this afternoon’s climb out of the valley as Bookworm decided to walk the road to the trailhead. This deviation marks a larger shift as a group as Bookworm will be hiking on ahead of us. They have an earlier end date than we do, in addition to being a stronger and faster hiker than Starman and myself who is capable of doing a higher daily mileage. When we started this trail I knew all of these things to be true, still, I’m sad that our time together is coming to an end so quickly. Bookworm is one of my favorite people both on the trail and off, and I’m incredibly grateful to have gotten to spend this much time together in such a beautiful place.

PNT Day 12 – Sodden

Mile 161.2 to mile 172.2

It’s 10am by the time we accept that it’s not going to stop raining. It’s 11:30am by the time I don my still wet clothes and pack away the sodden tent and finally begin moving down the trail.

Outside the world is a beautiful dreamscape of vibrant trees peaking through the mist. It’s not raining so hard as it sounded from within the tent and I resign myself to being wet. Today we are climbing 4,000 feet in just over 11 miles, a pace which makes me too sweaty to tolerate my rain jacket.

All day Starman and I move through this small quiet world, the usual vastness of nature having been muted and shrunken by the fog and drizzle. It’s almost like walking on a treadmill with a repeating backdrop. We climb, often in silence, each lost to our own world.

At our final water stop of the day a familiar shape emerges through the fog. It’s Bookworm! They pulled a 20 mile day with 6,000 feet of gain to catch up to us because they are a champion and a delight. The three of us reunited push on to the Mt. Henry lookout which we find mercifully empty and stocked with fire wood. We spend the evening idylly chatting while we wait for all our wet gear to dry.

PNT Day 13 – Yaak

Mile 172.2 to mile 185.9Marveling at the miracle that is being indoors we wake to find that our soaking gear has dried in the night. More glorious still is that the storm has blown away with the wind and left us a beautiful blue sky day with bands of clouds nestled peacefully in the valleys below.

Bookworm, Starman, and I head off the top of Mt Henry with me in the lead. Though even here I push myself to go just little bit faster than I normally would so that I don’t slow the other two too much. I’m so grateful to have Bookworm back even though they were only gone for one day and even though I know our trio can’t last. As I focus on my footing on the steep decent I listen enamored as Bookworm and Starman chat aimlessly with each other. My heart is full to bursting to hear my best friend and my partner getting along so well. This morning Bookworm doesn’t speed off ahead of us and seems content enough to walk my slower pace. We chat as the trail winds down, down, down into the so little you might miss it town of Yaak where we’ll pick up our resupply box, eat a burger, and then tomorrow climb right back out.

Marveling at the miracle that is being indoors we wake to find that our soaking gear has dried in the night. More glorious still is that the storm has blown away with the wind and left us a beautiful blue sky day with bands of clouds nestled peacefully in the valleys below.

Bookworm, Starman, and I head off the top of Mt Henry with me in the lead. Though even here I push myself to go just little bit faster than I normally would so that I don’t slow the other two too much. I’m so grateful to have Bookworm back even though they were only gone for one day and even though I know our trio can’t last. As I focus on my footing on the steep decent I listen enamored as Bookworm and Starman chat aimlessly with each other. My heart is full to bursting to hear my best friend and my partner getting along so well. This morning Bookworm doesn’t speed off ahead of us and seems content enough to walk my slower pace. We chat as the trail winds down, down, down into the so little you might miss it town of Yaak where we’ll pick up our resupply box, eat a burger, and then tomorrow climb right back out.

Bookworm (L) and Starman (R) identify a rubber boa found on the trail.
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New Zealand part 12 – Queen Charlotte track

The sun never really rises. Never really arcs across the sky. Never really sets under the leaden grey clouds. The first tendrils of fall are working their way across New Zealand as we make the leap to the North Island.

The whole thing feels, honestly, improbable. Not necessarily that time has passed, but more so that we are here at all. This trip started with a declaration which had no intention behind it other than escape and desperation: I cannot spend another winter in Seattle. It had nothing to do with New Zealand or the southern hemisphere or traveling internationally. I just knew that the winters in Seattle were dangerously bad for my mental health and that I wasn’t willing to put myself in that situation again. I was looking for an exit and I didn’t much care what was on the other side of that door other than sun shine and someplace that wasn’t Seattle.

And now, as the world turns and pitches I can feel the passage of time in my mammalian skin as entirely as I can feel the forest around me as Keith and I follow the sinuous path of the Queen Charlotte track from ridge to ridge above the bays below shining in every shade of blue. It’s quiet today, another sign that the summer is coming to a close. We see barely a handful of hikers all day and will share our campground with only one other couple. And though I have more than a month left before I fly home I cannot help but wonder if I have accomplished what I set out to do here. It feels pretentious to talk about living in the moment, a coifed nod to the ever-popular yet never defined mindfulness trend. After all, one’s follies and insecurities don’t evaporate just because you’re in a different timezone. I’ve been on stunning hikes where I wished I could be anywhere else and lazy days in bed grateful that I had nowhere to be. I’ve felt guilt over my privilege that allows me to go on such a trip while simultaneously grateful to be living in a trans body in this country and not the pulverizing hellscape that is the United States at this moment. Maybe it all comes out in the wash, or maybe there is no wash. Maybe hiking through the trees on this early fall day is all there ever is or will be, maybe I have sprung into being just now and that is the only thing that really matters.

That night, at camp, there is a rainbow that bursts into fleeting life just as the sun begins to set. Keith and I stand next to our little tent in dirty clothes and sweaty hair and watch the show unfold. And all I can think is that I am so blindingly lucky to have whatever it is I have right now.

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Getting Good at Being a Little Afraid

You’d think it would be easy to find small suction cups in a city as large as Seattle. I certainly did. In fact, as a Millenial in the age of access I basically assume that I can find any item in 36 hours with minimal time or money spent.

In a somewhat disappointing turn of events, I have discovered that this is sometimes just not true. Which is how I came to be standing in the checkout like at my third Home Depot stop of the day hoping that the adhesive-backed velcro I was buying wouldn’t require more than a few hours of scrapping to come off the inside of my car windows.

But let me start at the beginning.

I am someone who is 30% good at planning, 50% amazing at hoping for the best, and 20% willing to grit my teeth and laugh through a bad situation that came about as a result of my poor planning. Which is to say that when presented with a completely free four day weekend I made three bad plans; each one thwarted by dubious safety, distance, and the fact that winter in the Pacific Northwest is substantially less forgiving than the winters I’d grown accustomed to in Southern California. Eventually with snow and cold temps in the forecast I decided on a small road trip through the interior of British Columbia, sleeping in my car along the way. The velcro I was buying from Home Depot was to affix insulated cut outs to my cars windows. The cut outs, made from a similar material to windshield sun shades, were to prevent me from freezing to death by adding much needed insulation to my car.* But because I am a reluctant planner at best, I was buying said velcro for said cut outs on Friday night on the way to the Canadian border with my car already packed and only about half of my insulating cut outs made. It was fine. Or, it probably would be.

An insulating cut out for a rear window in my car. The suction cups were supposed to go in the corners and attach it to the window.

* Fun Fact: While sleeping in a car you lose most of the heat through your windows which is why insulated cutouts are a great idea if it’s going to be cold. They’re also good for added privacy.

As I drove through the Canadian border, then through and away from the bright lights of Vancouver I was admittedly a little scared. The whole trip felt reactionary and maybe a little dumb. I was driving north into a mild storm because the weather everywhere else was worse. I had a scribbled list of potential campgrounds that would hopefully still be accessible in late December. And in the same list some views I’d hope to see along the way if they weren’t obscured by clouds. Even if this trip was a dud, at least it was better than spending four days alone in my small apartment.

I got to my first campground (read: dirt parking lot in the trees) around 10pm and as I was setting up my car for sleeping a light snow began to fall. In the space leftover by my conscious brain fear swarmed around like irksome gnats–near invisible yet persistently annoying. What if it snowed more than the forecast called for and I couldn’t get my car out in the morning? What if it was too cold to sleep? What if the insulation I was sticking in my windows was magically too insulated and I suffocated while I slept? Was that even possible? Or what if some crazy ax murderer came and, ya know, murdered me? Was I too close to the road? Too far? On what side of adventurous and idiotic am I currently residing?

I had only winter camped once before this trip. Three weeks previously Starman and I hiked up Rainier and camped below the Muir snow fields. It was challenging and cold, but I had another person to turn to if things went wrong. But out here there was no such security. For all my experience outdoors, for all the miles hike and solo trips embarked on, being outdoors by yourself can still bring forth a fear-spiral of ‘what-ifs.’

As I sealed myself into the bubble of warmth inside my car my only option was to hope for the best. I have rarely been able to logic my way out of being afraid. The only way I’ve found to get over being scared is through experience. By exposure to small fear again and again we slowly grow into confidence by way of practice.

And you know what? I didn’t freeze (spoiler).

The next morning I woke to four inches of snow on the ground and fluffy white flakes drifting from the sky. I drove north.


“On what side of adventurous and idiotic am I currently residing? “

Down two lane roads with no tire tracks and no signs of people for hours. I took small, quiet walks to lookouts and silent lakes. Sliding in the footprints of strangers left behind before the latest snow. It feels eerie to be alone in natural spaces that are designed to hem people in, to protect them. I stood against signs pinned to ugly chain link fences and listened to the somber roar of a winter waterfall as the snow slowly worked to fill in my footprints.

I saw small avalanche slides between trees laden down with white caps of snow. I drove under massive slide paths where the trees were shorn down to their roots by a long since melted tidal wave of snow. The land in this part of the world is stunning and I am exultant in its presence. Chock full of mountains rearing up from deep valleys, where towns grow small and stunted, the land too steep for any sprawling human habitation. And in the early afternoon the darkness begins to snake it’s tendrils across the sky and there is that familiar voice of fear again.

While this land is beautiful in the extreme there is an undercurrent which belies the wonder. To err in a place of darkness and snow is to accept the chance of high consequences. Hence the insulated cutouts. The two sleeping bags and pads, spare socks and warm booties. The extra layers, jackets, emergency blanket, shove, stove, and boots. My car is full of so much gear I likely won’t use because that is how I handle the fear of newness–with contingency plans and warm pants. But also because my knowledge of traveling in places like this tells me to be careful.

I have come to recognize myself as someone with a proclivity for to pushing beyond my comfort zone. In college I went from an occasional jogger, to having my ACL repaired for the second time, to standing on the starting line of a half Ironman triathlon in 18 months. After college I went from running the rare half marathon, to running ultra marathons, to lightweight backpacking, to completing a 2,650 mile thru hike of the PCT. All in three years. I feel like a coy fish who is constantly outgrowing their pond. Slowly changing until all at once I feel like a different person. The extra gear in my car is a means for that growth. The extra gear is what will allow me to take the first tentative baby steps into new adventures while relying heavily on previously gained knowledge in order to mitigate risk. The only way I’ve ever learned to safely progress my skills in the mountains are by keeping one eye on the lessons of the past and by embracing little fears.

Which is why I didn’t take my inability to find suction cups as a good reason not to go on this trip. It’s why I didn’t turn around at the Canadian border as the sun set and the temperature began to drop. It’s why when I woke on Saturday morning I pointed my car north and drove. Because the only way I’ve ever found to move forward is to embrace the little fears and allow them to teach me what they will.

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Here We Are

The Mountain

The ground below me feels perilously steep. A long white chute of snow dropping away towards the valley floor. I step, and step again and the snow beneath my boots shifts a little and my whole body tenses. Far below me Keith is watching my painfully slow process. His mountaineering confidence and skill allows him to move quickly and easily across the same terrain I am clinging to like a frightened cat. Moments before, as he plopped on his butt and prepared to glissade out of sight he offered these parting words. “Remember” he said, “if you do have to self arrest lift your feet. If you dig your feet in while wearing crampons you’ll probably break your leg.” Casual, good pep talk.

I step, and step again. Repeating to myself “French step, French step, French step.” I am not even doing a proper French step–a mountaineering move in which you cross one leg over the other as you zig zag across a face–but the phrase focuses my mind. French step. French step. Ignore the dozens of ski tourers shuffling up the face around me. French step. French step. Ignore the couple having a shouting argument, the woman at the bottom of the hill too scared to go on, her boyfriend above me too ignorant of her fear to do anything helpful. French step. French step. The hill levels out and I stare around in wonder. It is so beautiful here.

The City

It’s Monday and I’m sitting at a red light watching cars stream past my driver side window where, through a combination of rain water and grit clinging to the glass, they melt into undistinguished blobs of light and motion before passing out of view. Above me, warm lights shine down from so many apartment buildings, glowing indicators of their invisible inhabitants. A reflection of a building, a city, a world full of so many people. Seen from the reverse I suppose I am just another invisible city dweller as indicated by my car’s headlights. In the span of a breath I feel my entire life collapse around me and I am left wondering how I came to be here. In this life, in this city, sitting in this body at this traffic light on this night. The light turns green.


“…is happiness a choice or a gift or a circumstance.”

As I drive through the rain blackened streets I perform a series of invisible yet impressive mental gymnastics. I think about the temp job I am working. I try and parce my feelings from each other but like a tangled ball of twine I cannot figure out what each string connects; what everything leads back to. I wonder if I am happy; is happiness a choice or a gift or a circumstance. I think about money and student debt and about the small apartment that Keith and I share. The choices of comfort and the resultant financial responsibility. I think about an alternate life, one in which I didn’t go to college, didn’t incur this wet blanket of student debt just to squeeze myself into the trap of specificity. I wonder if this other self would be happier. Or maybe I’m am simply dousing an imagined life in nostalgia, staring through rose colored glasses at a path not taken.

Or maybe it’s all irrelevant because I did go to college and graduated with all the accompanying debts and privileges and options and trappings. And now here I am in this life, in this city and the only option is to move forward. It’s the only option that is ever available to any of us.

The Plan

Before I found myself standing in a snow chute trying to French step my way off a mountain I felt the pull to escape the city. Our plans began as they so often do, as half formed ideas on a Thursday night which, by the miracle of the internet would be fully formed by Friday night only to be rethought on Saturday morning and finally acted upon.


 “A brilliant last hurrah in celebration of a day before the world turned to black and we were forced to scurry into our tent like the small burrowing mammals that we are.”

On Saturday we left my car in an empty parking lot in Mount Rainier National Park and climbed up the shoulders of the giant sleeping beast. Above us was only a grey bowl of clouds and in the distance we could hear small avalanches sliding off the Nisqually Glacier.

We climb up up up towards the clouds into a land of white until all of a sudden the sky dropped away and the world was flooded with a pastel dreamscape sunset. A brilliant last hurrah in celebration of a day before the world turned to black and we were forced to scurry into our tent like the small burrowing mammals that we are. Bundled in the misty interior of the tent we laughed and ate half frozen snacks, taking unflattering selfies because one day I’ll want to look back and be able to remember this. Because one day I may no longer be able to. Sitting inside the tent felt like a return to normal, a shedding of all the trappings of society until we could simply be. Away from the myriad people and needs of a city. It felt like being back on the PCT, like tentative normalcy.

The Process of Starting

It’s been a little over two months since Keith and I finished hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. In that time I feel like I have arrived at the start of what can whimsically be called the next chapter of my life. I worry that it’s going to look surprisingly like the last chapter. Weeks spent working in a large city, apathetically trading hours of my day for money. While on weekends we flee to the mountains to press the reset button on contentment. I wonder if it will be enough.

At 30 I have somehow found myself at a crossroads between the two world views with which I was raised. When I was a child I was told to follow my dreams, to pursue passion and to live a life of intensity. At the same time I was taught that the American dream way my responsibility and right to pursue. The house, career, car, and children were the epitome of normal, of expectation. So was the high flying life of dirtbagging adventure. However, it doesn’t take an overly skilled observer to see that these lives are at odds with each other. Be risky and responsible, daring and dutiful, adventuresome and adherent. And I did it, I did what was expected of me.

I have spent time dedicating myself to my career. Spent weekends in the office and burned the midnight oil. Then, I spent a glorious sun-drenched summer following my passion for the outdoors and living a life or irresponsible freedom. In the end I found neither to be sustainable. I have checked the boxes, been a good worker bee and an inspirational traveler. Put my nose to the grindstone and wandered in the woods and after all of that I am left with nothing more than questions.

I find myself in the muddy middle ground of life after an epic adventure. At the start of the narrative that so few bother to tell. Where expectations give way to honest desires and the realization that I am not entirely sure what those desires are. But I think change first comes from the willingness to open oneself up to possibilities. To look around and imagine that things might be different than it is even possible to know. So while I stand on the banks of a future I cannot see I will allow myself the grace to be happy with hitting the reset button of contentment each week as I escape into the mountains. I don’t know if it will always be enough. But for now it is. It’s enough.

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Trip Report – Going Back

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Stupid fucking Prius! I shout to nobody in particular as I’m forced to slam on my brakes. Keith is asleep in the seat next to me, he doesn’t even notice. We’re rocketing down the back side of Cajon pass on I-15 heading back to LA. Not quite home to LA. Just back.

What happened to me? I think as I glance around at the hundreds of cars swarming around me. Each with their own passengers, on their own journeys, with their own lives. Why am I so angry? These people aren’t out to get me. That Prius didn’t cut me off, he just wanted in my lane more than he wanted to wait for me to pass. Like all people, they weren’t being malicious; just too wrapped up in the own world to safely navigate mine. Oblivious, not evil. It’s a good thing to remember, it helps keep you sane in a city of 10 million people and rising. It’s too easy for this city to make you hardened and angry. That won’t do.

The pass levels out, cars merge and swerve around me. And suddenly from behind a hill comes the lights of the city. The darkness of the desert is replaced by the fluorescent glow of all those 10 million people. I can almost hear the buzz. And it’s then that a thought pops to mind. It’s clear and simple, and I know it to be 100% true. Just as I knew it to be true the first time it entered my head five or more years ago.

I don’t belong here. I think. This isn’t my home.

True. So true. But then again, where is?

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It’s Saturday morning and I can feel a mosquito biting my shoulder. I glance down to watch the little creature suck my blood, but I don’t dare make a move to swat him away. Don’t take your hands off the brake. I think to myself. I grip the rope a little tighter, just to be sure.

Above me Ian maneuvers his way up Man’s Best Friend (5.7). Below me the ground drops away 90 feet to the gully floor. I can look out to my right and see the entirety of Red Rock Canyon State Park. Massive cliffs give way to barren scrub desert, and through it all little people clamber from their cars, snap pictures, yell at their terrible children and drive on. Do they even know we’re up here? I think to myself.

“Clipping” Ian calls down from above.

Automatically I feed out the rope to him. I’m pulled back into the moment. Standing on the side of a cliff face, half way up my first multi-pitch route. I want to do this forever. I think to myself. Maybe I’ll never come down. Maybe I don’t have to.

But that’s dumb. Of course we do. The route isn’t that high, and we don’t have any food.

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It’s Saturday night and I’m still basking in the glow of my first multi-pitch. First anythings make you feel special. But then again, so does the wine I’m drinking. People mill around me, drinking, sharing stories of the day’s adventures. I chat with a half dozen people, and only realize later that I can’t remember any of their names. Somebody lights a fire and the whole scene glows orange. Somebody starts playing the guitar, it’s probably Adam, it’s always Adam on the guitar.

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Outside our little campground the desert fades to black. The conversation turns to Sunday. What’s the plan? What’s the next adventure? We could do anything. Out here, away from real jobs and real lives we could be anything. Well, maybe not, but it feels that way. Or maybe it’s just the wine.

Tomorrow I’ll drive back to LA. I think. Not home, just back.

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A Camping Supplies List – Because you have no idea what you’re doing.

There are a lot of benefits when it comes to being “that girl who does all the crazy outdoors stuff,” namely that people will randomly strike up conversations with me about hiking, nature, camping, and generally all things that fall under the category of “outdoorsy.” I’ve come to love these conversations if for no other reason than it beats listening to people talk about their yoga cat, or whatever it is people do in Hollywood to stay active.

Recently this penchant for asking me about nature, turned into people actually wanting to go out into nature with me. I know, right? But go figure, people are weird. However one thing I quickly realized is that people have exactly zero clue as to what they’re doing. Don’t believe me, here is an actual conversation I had.

Me: Excited for camping this weekend?

Clueless Future Camper: Sure, what do I need to bring to sleep?

Me: Well you’ll need a tent, sleeping bag, pad, pillow if you like…

CFC: Tent? I thought we’d be staying in cabins! Isn’t that what camping is?

Me: Ummmm, no. Camping is like, a tent-based activity.

And so I present to you a handy guide for car camping. Or, for the uninitiated, camping where you drive to within 100 meters of your camp site, grab all your junk, and sleep in a tent. You know, camping.

Camping and Stuffs