My alarm is blaring, it’s freezing in our hostel, and it’s far too early. My brain feels blurred around the edges, and things come slowly into focus as I shiver into the clothes that I laid out the day before. Thank you past self, I sleepily think. Outside our bus is waiting and we board with a dozen other half-asleep gringos and rumble out of the city. I know I’ll likely never see Arequipa again, this mountain city in Peru, and yet that fact doesn’t keep me from falling asleep as soon as the bus hits the road. That’s something they don’t tell you about international travel: that not every experience you have will be a mind-blowing, spiritually-awakening, self-realizing journey of discovery and love. Sometimes it’s just a pre-dawn bus ride.
Eight hours before I was in Lima which, and I’m being really honest here, is a really hard city to love. I’m sure people do love it there. Mothers love their especially awful children too. But I don’t. The city seems half way between Spanish colonialism, and a botched construction job. In all but the nicest parts of the city cinder-block buildings dominate, cops adorn more street corners than not, and traffic blares, rumbles, and honks its way through the streets. Lanes aren’t a thing here, but then again neither are stop signs, pedestrian crosswalks, or logical right-of-way. Dully I realize that life in Los Angeles has made the hectic sprawl of Lima seem rather tame. That’s nice.
And yet, the city does have some charm, though I cannot explain it’s origin. Perhaps it comes from the fact that nobody is interested in catering to my needs. English speakers are few and far between, and locals seem only marginally interested in spoiling this confused blanca and her endearingly white boyfriend. It’s refreshing. It’s also annoying at times.
I wake on the bus and we’re on the side of the road. We stumble out and watch the condors slide overhead. It’s incredible to see these birds. The same birds I remember learning about in third grade, and the likelihood they’d be extinct soon, probably within my life time soon. But here they are! It’s amazing.
Then we’re back on the bus, then we’re off the bus, and then just like that we’re below the rim of the Colca Canyon and it’s quiet. Really quiet. The canyon drops thousands of feet below us to a rushing river that looks like no more than a stream from where we are. We hike down down down, and then because we are foolish and because rest is for those with vacation time, we hike up up up and across the other side of the canyon. And I’ll spare you the details, but after all the hiking up we do, we turn right around and hike back down into the canyon, all the way to the bottom to the little town of Llahuar.
Our lodge there is everything I could have wished it to be. There are warm cocktails, and dinner, and little Peruvian women who giggle at my flawed spanish, and yet are so gracious and helpful. There are even hot springs and after dinner we soak in the water. Allowing our muscles to unwind as we watch the super moon rise.
Tomorrow we’ll hike out of the canyon. The sun will bake down on our heads in, what I’m coming to learn, only an equatorial sun can do. On our hike up we’ll realize that we don’t have enough water, and at least I don’t have enough food, and there is no shade. But it’s ok, because all there is to do is hike. When we get back to Cabanaconde on the rim of the canyon we’ll guzzle water and eat a lunch which, is by all objective standards completely average, but in the moment is perfect.
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?
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.
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.
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.
The roof of hidden lake lookout needed replacing. Badly. Cedar shingles, once a cheerful blonde, had turned grey and cracked after nearly 30 years of abusive Washington weather. Our hosts, Robert and Ethan scrambled across the lookout’s roof, installing the new shingles. Ones that would hopefully last as long as their predecessors (read: 20 years longer than they were intended to). To say the two men moved with ease would belie the precarious nature of the situation. Only Ethan had a harness, and while I could not ascertain how safe his rigging system was, it certainly had to provide greater safety than Robert’s, which, consisted of a knotted piece of rope wrapped repeatedly around his leg. It was this rope that would, at least in theory, prevent Robert from plummeting the 500 feet off the side of the mountain should he slip from the roof.
Hidden Lake Lookout in all her splendor. Sporting a lovely new roof.
Just six hours earlier I’d been waking to a 4am alarm and loading my gear into Rob’s battered Subaru Outback, grateful, if for nothing else, that the lingering smell of gasoline had faded since the last time I was in this car. As we drove through the predawn light, the urban glimmer of Seattle faded into the background, and our conversation turned to the dreaded permitting system. The goal was to beat the rush to the ranger station and secure one of the elusive Hidden Lake Lookout permits. As we pulled into the parking lot, we knew we had failed. The parking lot was filled with bleary-eyed people, more than a few of whom had spent the night in their cars. Rob returned to the car with our number, 13. My lucky number. We had to get a permit now, we just had to.
And we did.
Although it came with the warning that the lookout would likely be closed for repairs. Well then. That was just a chance we’d have to take.
Forever ascending. Remember to look back.
Ultimately, no chances had to be taken. No blustery bivies set up on an exposed ridge. Just a few hours of honest work helping to restore the old lookout would secure our lodging for the night.
The first glimpse of our lookout. If you look closely you can almost see the building… but then again, maybe that’s a lie.
After the work had been done our group of four, now turned to six, sat atop the rocky summit and watched one of the most incredible sunsets I’ve ever seen. The conversation turned to the niceties that had been foregone earlier. Where are you from. What do you do. I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious about my answers, especially surrounded by our new companions. Los Angeles, and advertising, seemed impractical and vain next to Ethan, the Boulder-based photographer, and Robert the possibly-nomadic lookout care-taker.
Ian the Newbie Photographer. His enthusiasm was so infectious.
The thoughts of employment and value had been circling my head for the previous month as I started a job hunt. What value is there is selling luxury cars, pimping mobile video games, and pushing content onto disinterested consumers? How does advertising, media, PR, marketing, any of it; how does any of it better our world? At 28 I’d already started to look around and wonder what my contribution to this little blue rock would be. How would I structure my life differently were I not saddled with more student debt than my annual salary? Or was my debt simply an excuse I used to keep myself in a city I felt no love for, and a job I had increasingly become disinterested in.
Ethan the Photographer.
Robert said having a job just gets in the way of the important things in life. I was surprised he didn’t finish his sentence with the hippy-cliché, a drawn out, maaaan. But man, maybe he was right. If not for the desire for a bigger house, why do I need more money? I certainly don’t have much interest in a new car, a bigger (or any) TV. So then, what the fuck am I doing?
Rober of the Lookout, accidentally causing 20-somethings to have existential crises’ since… fuck knows when.
The answer is, I’m not sure. This isn’t a blog post about where I suddenly discover the meaning of life from a mountain top guru. That’s the stuff of Hollywood movies, and frankly it’s crap, the notion that life’s choices can be distilled into an instant. Instead, our trip through the North Cascades left me with open eyes and a deep, aching desire to return to Washington to explore further. And Robert left me with more questions than I started with, and an urgent desire to find a place in the world that would better align with my lifestyle, values, passions, whatever you want to call it. No, no answers were found. But that’s just the way life is…. maaaaan.
Our view from the top of the world – Hidden Lake Lookout
I woke up in the back seat of my car, just as the sun started to creep over the granite faces that marked the entrance to Sequoia National Park. Now, this probably sounds like opening to a story where I confess that I’ve become homeless and destitute. But I promise that’s not the case. Instead I was casually sleeping on the side of the road so that I could get to the ranger station early in order to secure my backcountry permit. I had been looking forward to this trip all week: 30 miles and nearly 10,000 feet of gain, up and over innumerable passes in Sequoia’s Mineral King backcountry. Just me and my backpack. For this trip I wouldn’t even have a tent. Actually, you know what, that does sound a little bit like homelessness. Sorry mom.
9am found me on the trail, steadily climbing up into the mountains. Away from the friendly rangers, away from my happy little car, away, in a sense, from safety. I knew this trip was going to be hard. I had planned this trip specifically so it would be hard. I wanted a real challenge, and to strip away everything I thought I could do without. I knew the only way I’d make my goal (finishing the entire loop and making it back to my car before dark on Sunday) would be to go as light, fast, and lucky as possible. I was really, really excited.
I get a lot of praise and incredulity from my mountain exploits. Just as often as people tell me I’m amazing or badass, they also tell me I’m crazy. And then, without prompting, people love to tell me they could never do what I do. That they’d be too scared of bears/snakes/the dark/getting lost/whatever, to hike alone in the wilderness. Do you want to know a fun fact? That’s true. And no amount of being told how safe the wilderness can be, or what steps to take to protect yourself will convince those people otherwise.
Now, I can hear what you’re saying what kind of crap is she getting at? and that’s not very inspirational! And yeah, you’re correct. But you know what is also correct? That you can’t logic yourself out of fear. In my experience, the only way you get over the shit you tell yourself you can’t do is to do it. Sorry buttercup.
It was 5pm when I sat on a blackened log in the middle of a recent burn area. The scorched earth matched my mood as I dutifully stuffed calories in my face. Just hours before I had been frolicking through a Disney-esque mountain landscape irrationally happy and fueled with gluten free oreos. Now, I was having a low moment. This is supposed to be hard I told myself, that’s the point. Strangely that helped me feel better. Good, I thought if it’s hard, and it sucks, then I’m doing it right. Heaving my bag onto my shoulders I slogged down the trail. I walked, and I walked and I walked. Up and over mountains, past lakes.
And I kept doing it all the way into camp. Oh my god, I have never been happier to see a camp. And eat food, and sit down and know I don’t have to move for several hours. Funny how the little things can seem so luxurious.
Look at this Disney shit! How is this even real life?
Hammock camping had proved to be a complete disaster as every little breeze made me think that a bear was swatting at me like a meat-piñata. But morning had finally come, and despite my sleep deprivation I was ready to get on the trail. A breakfast of too-sweet coffee and s’mores ensued, and soon I was summiting the first pass of the day. I felt incredible, let out a primal yell of joy incredible. Do a dance on top of the mountain incredible! I practically ran down the backside of Black Rock Pass, thinking to myself it’s all downhill from here. And then it started to rain.
And this is the best part of backpacking. Which I know sounds like crap, but bear with me. The part of the day where you realize you’ve miscalculated mileage. The part of the day where you realize the final pass you have to climb is 2,400 feet up, not 500 feet up. The part of the day when it starts to rain and then hail on you but you don’t have a rain jacket because you thought you’d be back at the car by now. Those parts are freaking awesome.
I cannot even right now! Just look at this, it’s so f–king majestic!
Why? Because when you’re on the trail, the only way out is through. And when things go to crap, you have no choice but to get your shit together and hike your soggy butt over the mountain. Because, literally, there is no alternative. Well, I guess you could curl up under a tree and live like a squirrel for the rest of your life, but I know personally I would miss things like electricity and warm showers, so you should probably just keep hiking
And look, eventually I did make it out. I didn’t have to fashion a laptop out of twigs and pinecones in order to write this blog post. Eventually I got back to my car, and it was still daylight too. And as a result I’m pretty sure I’m a stronger person for it. And I know for a fact that I’m a heck of a lot more appreciative of the little things. Like sitting on soft stuff that isn’t rocks, and not smelling terrible. Seriously though, deodorant is pretty incredible.
So maybe give yourself some credit, and try something you think you can’t do. Because what is the worst that could happen, you get eaten by a bear? Ok, yeah that probably is the worst case scenario. But when you wake up in the mountains and you realize you haven’t been eaten by a bear, and you didn’t die, or wake up to find a gaggle of hillbillies have made you their bride, you’ll probably be pretty proud of yourself, and realize that maybe nature isn’t such a big, scary place.
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Last weekend I spent two days on a solo backpacking adventure through Sequoia National Park. The experience was definitely one of the hardest things I’ve voluntarily put myself through, but it was also incredibly rewarding, and at times super freaking fun. This lead me to thinking about how everything we do and love, or do and hate is really just based on personal perspective. These exhaustion-fueled musings lead to this little comic.
Also, I apparently write comics now. If for no other reason than to amuse myself.
Look for a full trip report coming later this week.
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.
I wake on the bus and we’re on the side of the road. We stumble out and watch the condors slide overhead. It’s incredible to see these birds. The same birds I remember learning about in third grade, and the likelihood they’d be extinct soon, probably within my life time soon. But here they are! It’s amazing.
