Girl in the Woods
Page 39
And for giving to RAINN, often and generously.
Jacob, my big brother, for protecting me, wanting the best for me, wanting to help guide me and pull me through. For seeing the beauty in me before I could. For wanting me to find what you had.
Robert, my big brother, the smartest man, and a great dad. Thank you for “publishing” my first “book.” I love you.
Kelly, for confiding your own stories, and listening to mine since I was two.
Wellesley, for teaching me how to wear eyeliner for the first time, framing my eyes and making me feel beautiful, and for your kindness.
Tom Parker, my incredible nephew—I love you dearly. You will be wildly great.
Dad. The best storyteller I know. In the time since, for giving me all the love and affection I craved as a girl. When things fell apart again, you rushed to New York. “Yours will not be a tragic life,” you promised me, and I believed you—and now I cannot allow it to be. You wrote me a poem about the Animal Ancestors you remember me drawing, regretting the carousels we didn’t ride together—we’re riding them now.
I love you and it’s not too late.
I am a writer because you are a writer.
Thank you for calling me a writer when I was only a kid.
Mom and Dad, for teaching me how to walk.
And for allowing me to finish this book in the place where it all began.
MY TRIBE
Tess Johnson, poet of angst and desire, rising rockstar. My Hellflower and my safety—and I am yours, always and forever. You make all days better. I’m terribly excited for this summer. Tessie—I love you.
Corrina Gramma, goddess girl. We found each other in a Greenwich Village café in the middle of the night; from the dark you lit my way to sobriety and the clarity that followed—the earthy place where I learned that I am tall enough to reach up high and turn on the light myself.
Thank you for your grace, your perceptive convictions clear as water, your quiet power to sway your friends in healthier directions. You teach me the morals of the stories I’ve been telling all my life. This book is peppered with your gems, shimmering with Gramma.
You show me the way to empowering autonomy—solid ground from where I can see my younger self with compassion. Every question that you ask me leads to answers that show and show once again how capable we all are of making our dreams real.
You are your own sun.
You are a truly great thinker, and woman.
You are the Aerialist.
PHOTO SECTION
Front yard. Childhood in Newton, Massachusetts. Newton is the Garden City
Walking in the woods on a path with my un-pictured family. Seven years old (1997)
At home with books
A watercolor from my first “book,” published by my family
On a hike with my mother, presenting: water
Eight years old (1998) New Hampshire
Birch Hill Sleep Away Camp, eleven years old (2001)
My paintings made in private lessons that my parents generously gifted me
A Newton South High School cross-country race, Newton. Fifteen years old (2005)
Nordic Ski Race, Weston, Massachusetts
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
Day 1—a trail sign warning of the dangers of the desert
Courtesy of Kat “Censored” Jimenez
The Sonoran Desert, California. A selfie in desert solitude
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
Scissors Crossing, the California desert. The bookshelf full of water that saved my life
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
LEFT: Icecap’s tarp-shelter
RIGHT: My Seedhouse tent
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
Courtesy of Stephanie “Trainwreck” White
Crossing the Mojave Desert
Courtesy of Stephanie “Trainwreck” White
The PCT’s crest, marking the way
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
Hiker Heaven, a free thru-hiker hostel in Agua Dulce, run by trail angels
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
A field of suncups in the Northern High Sierra
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
My hand, picking huckleberries
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
The PCT Atlas, as if the trail were a world, in Dash’s hand
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
The Cascade Range, Washington Dash, high on the crest
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
A selfie at the gap in the woods, where the Pacific Crest Trail ends
Courtesy of Aspen “Wild Child” Matis
The first time I saw my face without glasses, with makeup (my wedding day)
By Larry Brunt
With Dash, back in the Cascade mountains on our wedding night
By Larry Brunt
Back at Colorado College, speaking about my rape and the long walk I took in its aftermath
Courtesy of Jill Rothenberg
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ASPEN MATIS is a writer living in Greenwich Village, where she’s finishing her degree at The New School and working on a novel.
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CREDITS
Cover design by Amanda Kain
Cover illustrations: © by Matt Grove/Getty Images (trees); Jamie Farrant/Getty Images (birds)
Trees on title page by © MattGrove / Getty Images
COPYRIGHT
GIRL IN THE WOODS: A MEMOIR. Copyright © 2015 by Aspen Matis. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-229106-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-06-239061-5 (international edition)
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2015 ISBN 9780062291080
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