by Jessi Kirby
Finally, I make it to a brightly lit tunnel, and I’m happy when I reach it. It’s too long to hold my breath and make a wish like Bri and I used to do, but the lights are warm and bright, and somehow that makes me feel less lonely. But they don’t make me feel less tired, so when I reach the end of it and see a small parking lot and a sign that says vista point off to the left, I pull off the road. My headlights cut through the darkness of the empty lot, and I park at the curb, facing a low rock wall and the darkness beyond. When I shut off the car and step out into the night to stretch, the absolute silence of the place is almost a sound in itself.
It’s cold, and I shiver a little as I stretch my arms above my head. But when I lift my eyes to the sky, I forget about everything except what I see in this moment. Spread out in a vast, inky dome above me are millions of tiny pinpoints of light. It’s not even a second before I see one streak across the night, leaving a thin trail of light behind it.
A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes water. Here is my welcome, and I know exactly where it came from.
“I made it,” I say to the sky, and then I blow my cousin a kiss, and I make a wish.
To Be Better
A LOUD, INSISTENT tapping echoes in my head and rouses me more abruptly than I’m ready for. I’m cold and disoriented, trying to blink my eyes awake in the too-bright morning light. Facts rush in as I sit up and realize what’s going on: I’m in Yosemite, slept in my car, and am probably about to get a ticket.
More tapping. The windows are fogged up so I can’t see, but a voice, female and official-sounding, addresses me.
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.”
“I . . . um . . . okay, just a sec.” I look in the mirror, run my fingers through my hair like that will make a difference, and then glance around for my wallet.
“Miss? Please step out of the car. Now.”
I open the door cautiously and do what I’m told. Standing there is not a police officer, like I was picturing, but a middle-aged woman with graying hair and glasses, dressed in head-to-toe green, complete with a ranger hat. I don’t know why, but it puts me at ease to see her there. I smile.
She does not smile back. “There’s no overnight camping in cars here in the park.” She gestures at a sign just one space over. “It’s clearly posted.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see that. I got in late last night, and I was so tired I knew I wasn’t going to make it all the way, so thought the safest thing to do would be to pull over and sleep.”
She glances in the car. “You alone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nods. “It probably was the safest thing to do in your situation. But it’s illegal here, and I’m going to have to write you up for it.” She reaches for her ticket book then steps aside to speak something into her radio.
I gasp. Not at the fact that I’m about to get a ticket, but at what I see in front of me.
Where she stood just a second ago, a scene like a postcard opens up. The sunrise sky is the first thing I see. It’s on fire with every imaginable shade of orange and pink and gold. I run my eyes over the landscape in front of it, in complete disbelief of what is spread out before me. It doesn’t look like it could possibly be real.
Huge, towering mountains of rock jut out from the forest below, like they were thrust straight toward the sky by some massive, violent force. They stand like silent giants, cold and unyielding, except where the sunlight splashes them with its warm glow. In the distance, a waterfall spills down the face of a mountain in slow motion, and beyond that, Half Dome absorbs and reflects the deep orange light like a beacon over the valley.
I can hear the ranger talking, but I can’t pull my eyes away. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. I feel a tear slide down my cheek, and reach up to brush it away.
The ranger comes back over to where I’m standing. “You all right, miss?” she asks, her tone softer than before.
I nod, still unwilling to take my eyes away.
She stands beside me and surveys the valley below. “First time here?”
I nod again.
“It’s a sight to see, the sun rising up over the land like that. Happens every day, but it never gets old.”
I wipe another tear away. “No, I don’t imagine it could, not here.”
“Not anywhere,” she says, her eyes scanning the sky. “Every new day is a fresh chance and a clean slate.” She pauses. “You know what I mean?”
I nod.
“You headed down into the valley?”
“Yes.”
“Passing through, or staying a while?”
I look at her now. “Passing through. Kind of. I’m starting a hike today.”
She smiles. “Which one?”
I hesitate before I answer because I know that doing Bri’s entire hike isn’t in the realm of possibility for me. But standing here right now, with the sun spilling light over the new day, makes me wish it was. So I say it anyway.
“I’m hiking the John Muir Trail.”
The ranger nods slowly. “Good for you, honey. I haven’t done that one, but I know a lot of folks who have. That hike’ll test you, truly, but it’ll change your life.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” I answer, surprised that she believes me.
She turns to me. “Well. You best get on your way. The Wilderness Office opens soon, and you’ll want to get in line for your permit.” She crumples up the ticket with my license plate filled in already.
“Really?” I ask. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Sure,” she says with a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Everybody needs a break sometimes. Just make sure you pay it forward out there on the trail.”
I smile. “I will. Promise.”
I mean this when I say it. I’m so touched by the small kindness that she’s just shown me, I want to be able to pass it on.
She nods and tips her hat. “Good luck. And don’t forget, when things seem bad—and they will out there—every day is a chance to be better than you were the day before.”
When I pull into the parking lot of the Wilderness Center, I try to remember this. The ranger’s office doesn’t open for another ten minutes, but there are already hikers lined up on the deck and gathered around the parking lot in small groups. They check gear and packs, cradle coffee in gloved hands, and talk and laugh in the cool morning air. They look comfortable, like they belong here. I try to tell myself that I do too, that this is my fresh start, but all I can think of as I get out of my car and take my place in line is that I’m in over my head.
A half hour later, when it’s my turn to step up to the counter, the man there seems to agree. He checks my ID, and matches it with my name on the permit before he hands it to me. “And Bri Young?” he asks, looking over my shoulder.
“She’s here,” I say. “Outside. Watching our packs.”
“It’s just you two girls?” he asks, without bothering to hide his opinion about this.
“Yes.”
“And your parents are letting you do this alone?”
“Yes.”
“You see the movie, or something?”
“What movie?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows in disapproval, then opens his mouth to say something else, but seems to think better of it. “Nevermind.”
“Is that all? Can I go?”
“You girls need to be extremely careful,” he says, instead of answering my question. “Especially with the winter we had. Rivers are the highest they’ve been in years. Crossings are treacherous. We’ve already had four hikers swept away, and lots have had to turn back on account of how much snow is still out there.” He pauses a moment, and concern replaces his stern demeanor. “You’re aware of all this?”
I am now. “Yes, sir,” I say.
“And the bears are out, and they’re hungry, so it’s imperative that you stow anything and everything that could tempt them in your bear canister. Not just
food. Toiletries too—deodorant, lip balm, lotion. Female products. Anything with a scent that might attract them.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, realizing what the plastic canister in my pack is for. I take a deep breath to try to calm the growing sense of fear in my stomach. I hadn’t counted on having to contend with bears. “Anything else I should know?” I’m genuinely asking, and I think he sees it.
He glances over my shoulder at the line behind me then leans in like he’s going to tell me a secret, and motions for me to do the same.
“Even experienced hikers don’t make it the whole way. You’re young and have plenty of time to do a hike like this. Just remember that. Nothing out there is worth dying for, so if you girls think, at any time, that you’re getting in over your heads, there’s no shame in leaving the trail, you understand?”
You girls.
A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach, and I almost tell him the truth—that my cousin was young and brave, and died training for this hike. That she was far more prepared and experienced than me, but I’m the one who’s here now, alone, and I have no idea what I’m doing, or any business even attempting a tiny part of it.
I almost say to him that I don’t know anything about crossing rivers or bear canisters, or how to work the stove in my pack. But I don’t. I don’t want him to try to talk me out of it, or tell me one more thing that I should be afraid of, because it might just be enough to make me quit before I’ve even tried. And then I’d be back to having nothing.
This, even if it’s crazy, and foolish, and I don’t have a chance at succeeding, it’s something.
Right now, it’s really the only thing.
“I understand,” I say.
Apparently satisfied by my answer, he slides the permit across the counter to me. “Okay. Good luck, be safe, and don’t forget to secure your food at all times.”
“I won’t,” I say as I take the permit. “Thank you.”
He nods in answer, and I turn and walk, permit in hand, past the line of hikers who all look more experienced and prepared than me. An older couple, decked out in matching cargo vests, cargo pants, and boots, look over at me as I pass. A young woman smiles then continues on with the conversation she’s having with a man who looks like he’s probably her dad. Last is a group of guys who look close to my age, standing in a circle in front of the doors I need to exit through.
“Excuse me,” I say, just as they all burst out laughing at something. It’s like I’m not there. I repeat myself, this time a little louder, with more confidence than I actually feel. “Excuse me.”
One of them turns around and makes eye contact with me. His are a warm brown that matches his wavy hair, which is held back by a bandanna. “Sorry,” he says. Then he turns back to his friends. “Hey. Move. She’s trying to get through.”
Still laughing, the other three guys step aside so I can pass.
I glance back at the one who made them move. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” he says with a dimpled grin. “See you out there.”
I give him a quick smile but don’t bother with an answer before I push through the door.
Outside, the sun is momentarily blinding, but the air still has a chill to it. I walk to my car then follow the directions to where the main parking lot and camp store are. The lot is already half full, and crowded with people standing around their cars unloading gear, bent over packs, checking equipment, and all generally looking like they know what they’re doing.
I pull into the first empty spot I see and shut off the engine. Then I tell myself to get out and do the same, even if I’ll be faking it. But I just sit there, watching through the windshield, trying to ignore the growing sense of fear from the words of the wilderness permit guy running through my head.
Four people swept away crossing rivers. Hungry bears. Snow in the middle of summer. Nothing out there worth dying for.
All of the reasons I shouldn’t go speed through my mind, one after another. But then something else he said silences them: You’re young and have plenty of time.
My breath hitches and a lump rises in the back of my throat.
It’s what we all think—that we have plenty of time—but we don’t know that for sure. Life can change in an instant. A single misstep on a familiar cliff trail changed Bri’s. Any number of unexpected things could change mine. We don’t see these things coming. We never plan on them happening, but they do—all the time, which is scary to think about.
I never thought about it before, but I know how true it is now.
There are so many things that could go wrong if I try this. I put my face in my hands and close my eyes and try to picture Bri here with me. Try to hear what she would say if she knew how afraid I was. It’s quiet in the car, but through the open windows, I can hear the jovial voices of other hikers as they get ready, and beneath those voices, outside sounds—the distant rushing of water, birds chirping intermittently, a breeze moving through the tops of the trees. So much life, still going on all around, despite the fact that these things can happen.
Or maybe in the face of the fact that they can happen.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe Bri was one of the people who knew that about life, and that’s why she packed so much living into her days. Because they could be gone at any time, and she wanted them to count. She said herself she wouldn’t waste a second, and she didn’t.
I sit there in my car, on the valley floor of Yosemite, my cousin’s backpack in my trunk, and her plans for the journey of a lifetime sitting on my front seat, and I want my days and my life to count too.
I want them to count for something more than what I’ve been doing, and I don’t understand how or why I know, but this is it. This is how I start. Today. I start by opening the door, and letting the sunshine and the mountain air wash over me.
A Mile in Her Shoes
BOTH KNEES ALMOST buckle and I struggle to stay upright under the immense, unwieldy weight of the pack. It bulges out in every direction, towers over my head, and tugs painfully downward on my shoulders, making it feel impossible to find my balance. Lean too far forward, and I’ll end up face-first on the pavement. Too far the other way, and I’ll be on my back, limbs in the air like an overturned bug, helpless and unable to get up. I take a deep breath and pull the chest and waist straps tighter in an attempt to even out the weight, or make it more comfortable, or have this suck less, but it doesn’t help. It’s then that it sinks in, an inkling of the actual, physical reality of what I’m going to try to do.
I’m going to try to walk with this pack on my back. Not just walk, but hike. Climb. I am exhausted and I haven’t even left the parking lot. And the start of the trail is almost a mile away. I look down the road at the steady stream of hikers heading to the trailhead, which I’ve learned is the most popular starting point in Yosemite. There are a few other large packs like mine, but most people carry regular daypacks or none at all. There are families with small children, young and old couples, small groups and larger ones that look like they’re on some kind of tours. Many carry what look like metal ski poles, and standing here with this pack on my back, I can see why. Any extra help would be worth it. I check that my car is locked one last time, feel for the water tube that hangs over my shoulder, and my phone in the side mesh pocket of the pack, and then I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. With a few wobbly steps, I join the stream of happy summer hikers.
Almost immediately, I hear a little voice just behind me say, “Whoa, look at her backpack, Mama. She must be going a loooonnng way!”
“I bet she is,” a woman’s voice answers.
I glance backward, but I can’t see around my pack. I can still hear the little voice, though.
“Look at all those patches and pins all over it! They’re so pretty!”
“I know, they’re very cool!” her mom says. Then she lowers her voice to just above a whisper. “Maybe she’s collected them from all of the places she’s been,” she says. “She looks like an adventurer, just like
us.”
Seconds later, the little girl, dressed in miniature hiking gear, shuffles up next to me, her tiny legs working hard to keep up with my pace, slow as it is. She looks up at me over the rim of her heart-shaped sunglasses. “I’m going to the top of a waterfall today,” she declares proudly.
“Wow,” I manage. I slow my pace just a touch. “That’s awesome.”
Her mom catches up to her and grabs her hand, giving me an apologetic look. “Sorry, she’s really excited—and quite impressed with your backpack.”
I smile down at the little girl. “You wanna carry it for me?”
This makes her laugh. “No WAY. I have my own backpack.” She turns so I can see it. “Are you going to the waterfall too?” she asks me.
I shake my head. “Not exactly.”
“Then where are you going? Somewhere far? Is that why your backpack is so ginormous? And are ALL of those patches from places you’ve been? My mom says they are.”
“Lia,” her mom says, “too many questions, sweetie.” She turns to me. “Sorry. Again. She was admiring all of the patches on your backpack, and we wondered if maybe you’d collected them on other adventures.” She glances at her daughter. “We’re very big on adventures right now.”
“That’s great,” I say, not sure what else to add. I didn’t think about it until she said it, but I bet she’s right about the patches, and all of the places Bri had been.
For a long moment, nobody seems to know what to say next, and the silence is made even more awkward by the fact that we’ve fallen into the same pace. The sound of our boots and breathing seem to grow louder until Lia breaks the silence with more questions.
“So are you going somewhere new? And far?”
Her curious, little-girlness makes me smile.
“Yes,” I say. “Both. Somewhere new—and far.”
“Where? How far?”
