The original title “unfinished business” has aged all too well. It’s been two years since I wrote (but never shared) the post that follows. Two years of exhaustion, autoimmune disease diagnosis, and pandemic. Of managing the mental gymnastics that is balancing work overloads and constant worry for a kid that still cannot be vaccinated with recognition of the privilege of working from home. Of seeking solace in bright blooms of Texas wildflowers that briefly dull a heart aching for west coast family and landscapes. And somehow, here I am in 2021, cautiously optimistic that despite everything, this might actually be the year I finish the PCT. But first, some stories from 2019.
July 13, 2019 On the Train to Klamath Falls
For the first time ever I’ve been training for a hike. Walking hilly Portland trails after dinner. Faithfully repeating the regimen of exercises prescribed by my physical therapist. Carrying baby Jade on my back, first, just up to Council Crest, and then up 1,500 feet to Angel’s rest in the Columbia River Gorge. “She has a BABY!” I hear other hikers exclaim to each other in passing.
Yes, a baby. A year and a week ago today I had a baby. A year ago I could barely walk across the house. Nevermind the idyllic images of families backpacking with infants, even carrying 7 lbs of wee newborn was too much stress for my traumatized body. All movement was agony and I couldn’t so much as stand up without my bladder involuntarily emptying itself. I was completely freaked out that this would be the new normal and that I would never backpack again (not to mention never sleep again).
A year later, and little bug is one. And running! And finally, finally, sleeping through most nights [spoiler: this does not last]. And asking for water with words. And I am totally in love. A year later, and my body is mostly healed, though running and sneezing still present persistent challenges.
So, though I dream of hiking Washington and finishing the PCT this year, I’m starting with a modest trial run, filling in a 77 mile gap north of Crater Lake that I skipped over on one occasion and then stopped short of on another. I did have reasons: a bricked phone leaving me with no way to navigate considerable snow fields. An infected random blister (I have already hiked 700 miles that summer so why then?) between my toes that started to smell disconcertingly funky. Mosquito madness barely endurable with the unexpected loneliness that is heading southbound.
And so here I am, on a slow train headed south back to Crater Lake. The lingering snow patches again obscuring the trail. The waterless stretch still dry. The mosquitos still bloodthirsty and swift. And hopefully the old toe socks I packed aren’t the ones that tore up my feet? I’m headed right back to where I left off and yet so, so not the same. My old hiking clothes fit, but my Fixie hikertrash identity doesn’t slip on as easily. Maybe I need a new trail name? (Mamachari?) Maybe I just need to know that I can still do this? That becoming a parent doesn’t have to require permanently jettisoning every single component of your previous self.
I hugged my little at Union Station, swallowing tears as she nuzzled right into my neck for a session of pre-nap clingy cuddles. She’s staying home with her “Dada,” grandparents and two doggos. An 18 mile waterless stretch is no time to experiment with solo backpacking with a one year old. Also my shoulder is all out of whack, so that in itself is going to be interesting. Hopefully it’s just the fallout from hunching at my laptop 12 hours a day for the last three weeks solid in the mad rush of work I had to complete before leaving. But maybe it’s not? [Dear Reader, it was not. I had and am still recovering from adhesive capsulitis, likely related to other finally diagnosed autoimmune troubles]. So we stopped at the store for extra Aleve on the way to the station and I cram my first aid kit full of little blue pills just in case.
On the train I’m seated next to a collage-age woman who tells me about her work rigging tall ships and about the time she auditioned for The Voice. So basically I’m seated next to a singing pirate. Things get a bit weird in at the snack bar though, where the attendant coyly shows me how he pushes he buttons on the microwave “this is what I do all day he says.” I think he is flirting somehow? He also tells me that—no exaggeration—195 Boy Scouts are boarding soon. As I retreat back to my seat assuming my more expensive ticket (because that’s all that was left) will shelter me from the invasion, I notice “Boy Scouts” signs reserving half the car. Even business class is not immune.
I take train window-blurred photos of the forested mountains at sunset, the trail over the ridges just out of sight. Right now, the old reasons for skipping this stretch don’t seem to be enough. Why didn’t I just keep going? It was only a few days??? Regardless, I know my stubborn self well enough to understand that making it to Canada without connecting my steps will taint the finish, that I will deny myself some of the joy (also these Oregon miles are an appealingly flat reintroduction to the hiking life). So south I go on a slow train made slower by a broken down freight train blocking the tracks. South to walk north again so I can walk north some more. And maybe, one day, I will wake up truly content with all these new directions.
Adventures in Natureculture 